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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26297047">This Tornado Loves You</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sequence_fairy/pseuds/sequence_fairy'>sequence_fairy</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series), Watcher Entertainment RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Storm Chasers, Getting Together, I promise there's not too much science, M/M, Mutual Pining, Strangers to Lovers, Welcome to my super niche special interest in au form, and now the weather</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 08:55:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>22,592</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26297047</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sequence_fairy/pseuds/sequence_fairy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>“Thing’s a fuckin’ monster,” TJ says into the phone, “you should be able to see it now.” </p>
  <p>Shane turns to look out the truck window. The sky is black, and around him, the corn tops are still. Nothing moves. The air feels terrifyingly full. Shane looks under the storm. It takes him a moment, but then he sees it, backlit by a flash of lightning. </p>
  <p>All the hair stands up on the back of Shane’s neck. </p>
</blockquote>Or: Shane Madej is a serious scientist, not just some yahoo with a camera and a death wish. Ryan, on the other hand, has a camera and a plan.
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ryan Bergara/Shane Madej</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>72</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>207</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>This Tornado Loves You</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/arostine/gifts">arostine</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Sometimes, folks enable you to write 22k about your super niche special interest. This is for you, Katie, with my apologies for taking so long to get it to you.</p><p>Thank you to <a href="http://uneventfulhouses.tumblr.com">Yesi</a> for the beta work, and the bridge club for enabling me in this and all things. </p><p>I am posting this from the deck of the cottage while a distant shower turns the lake to whitecaps, happy long weekend to everyone!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Shane’s been following the weather across state lines for as long as he can remember. Growing up near Chicago afforded him a childhood of watching summer thunderstorms coming in off the lake and feeling the bite of the bitter north wind that would bring the heavy snow in the winter. He’d learned the names of the clouds as a child, and for all the other things that had fled from his brain as he’d grown, to be replaced by adult knowledge, the names of the clouds remained. </p><p>The wispy beauty of cirrus, the soft weight of altostratus, the rain-dark nimbus, and, his favourite, even as a small kid, the towering cumulonimbus, bubbling up ahead of a summer storm. He’d learned early to watch for them to shear off into flat anvil tops and then, to wait for the flicker of lightning inside them.</p><p>His first memory of lightning is from when he was in primary school, dashing across the space between the main school building and the portables in a downpour. He remembers the way the air had seemed to fizzle, the way all the hair on his arms had stood up and then the blinding flash that was immediately followed by the deafening crack of thunder and the smell of ozone on the back of his tongue. He’d been dazzled by the bright light, and the instinct to duck and cover from the sound had left him squatting on the pavement, hands over his ears.</p><p>Other children would perhaps have become traumatized by this experience, but Shane’s been chasing that particular feeling of adrenaline mixed with awe since he was seven years old. He’s been close to capturing it since then, standing on the high plains in the late spring, watching a storm spin up and up and up until it suddenly lowers and points its finger of destruction at whatever is in its path. </p><p>Today, his team is mostly spread out in the lounge of a hotel in Chickasha, Oklahoma. Outside, TJ and Mark are moving equipment around in the van and Shane can see them chatting with a group of tornado tourists taking a break before they get back in their tour vehicles and head out to get into position for the next outbreak. </p><p>Shane’s phone buzzes at his elbow and he looks over at it. </p><p>The twitter notification is from a friend from Met school, tagging Shane in reply to a tweet. Shane opens the notification and scrolls up to find the original tweet. </p><p>The OP is one of the innumerable amateur chasers Shane’s noticed cropping up now that weather data is more and more widely available and easier and easier to interpret. The photo is of a mothership cell, contrast elevated to show the structure of the clouds and saturation punched up to show the brilliant green of the hail core. The canola field in the foreground is gorgeously yellow next to the dark sky. </p><p>Shane agrees it is a very lovely photo, and gives it a like before backing out into his own twitter feed. </p><p>He scrolls through for a moment, and then switches over to the search to pull up the local weather hashtags to see who is out and about already. </p><p>There’s a discussion about the CAPE values today, and another one arguing about which model is better, and a woman insistent on declaring that severe weather is a hoax. Shane blocks her for posterity and goes back to the discussion about CAPE, reading through the replies to the original tweet. </p><p>He answers a couple of questions, which leads to more questions and soon he’s pulling up model runs for three states over and making an on the fly forecast for a woman in Tennessee whose worry he can sense through the text on his screen. </p><p>When he looks up again, Katie’s the only one of them left with him in the lounge and his laptop is dying. She sends him a smile over the top of her laptop screen, and then goes back to her dissertation draft. </p><p>Shane stands and stretches, all the knobs of his spine re-aligning and his knees popping for added drama. The sky outside is the kind of big and blue that it only gets out here. There’s nothing in the forecast for at least the next few days, so Shane’s happy to let the team rest and recuperate from the long hours on the road they put in over the last week. </p><p>They’re going to be moving again soon, there’s a ripple on one of the models for five days out that might turn into something. While Shane appreciates the fact that storm prediction has become so ubiquitous and electronic and <em> fast </em>, he’s also always relied on his gut and his own read of the clouds on the day of the forecast. There’s a feeling in the pit of his stomach, part excitement, part worry, as he thinks about what might show up in the sky on that day, five days out. </p><p>He heads back to his room, taking his laptop with him. Once there, he starts the upload of the latest drone data and watches the model run again. It’s only a blip now, but combined with what he knows is already in the air, and the kind of season it is, Shane’s sure that it’s going to turn into something. </p><p>Before getting into the shower, he texts TJ a .gif of the model run. </p><p>When he gets out, the reply from TJ is a string of emojis: a thumbs up, a thundercloud with lightning, and the wind emoji. There’s also a link to another photo from Arkansas, this one taken by a chaser who goes by the handle @windsheared. It’s the mothership again, in panorama so you can see both the inflow and outflow. </p><p>The editing is subtler, but there just the same. Shane appreciates a lighter hand. He retweets this one, and comments underneath. </p><p>He’s pulling on a new pair of socks when his phone dings with another notification. @windsheared has liked his reply. Shane navigates to the profile, noticing immediately that @windsheared, Ryan, according to the one-liner biography under his header image of an anvil crawler over a city Shane isn't familiar with, follows him already. Shane follows him back, and then puts his phone down in order to start digging into the data they gathered from the last series of chase days.</p><p> </p><p>-:-</p><p> </p><p>Ryan shifts in the driver’s seat of his car. He’s been sitting on this rise looking out over endless fields for hours. The sun is hot overhead, and the sky is clear blue. If he was less patient, he’d have given up by now. He knows most of the other chasers in the area have wandered off towards more certainty - a squall line to the northeast - but Ryan’s not into straight-line winds. He’ll wait and see if anything is going to come of the heavy humidity hanging in the air.</p><p>Insects hum in the cornfield next to his open window. Ryan reaches up to adjust the phone cradle stuck to his windshield. He wakes up his phone and turns on the camera. He mugs for a couple of minutes, checking his angles and the lighting inside the car. </p><p>Outside, the field ripples and sways, and the clouds race overhead. Good winds aloft today. </p><p>Ryan reaches forward again and hits record. </p><p>“Hey y’all,” he says, upbeat. “Still waiting for the storms to fire today, but things look good. There’s lots of moisture in the air, and the soundings look really promising coming out of Wichita.” </p><p>Ryan reaches up to adjust the brim of his cap, resettling it onto his head. Viewers pop in, but Ryan mostly ignores the stream of comments, chatting about where he’s situated today, and what he’s hoping to see. It’s easy to keep up the running patter now, and he settles into the rhythm of it.</p><p>“Think we might be in for a show,” he says, and reaches to pull the phone out of it’s cradle and get out of the truck. He turns the camera from front-facing back to the rear lens, and pans slowly along the horizon. </p><p>The wind has kicked up another notch, and the air suddenly tastes wet and green. </p><p>“I’m gonna hang out here for a while longer, see what happens,” Ryan tells his phone. He signs off, and ends the stream, before leaning back against the side of his truck and tipping his head back to look up at the sky. </p><p>The cumulus clouds are starting to form; soft, puffy heralds of the hopefully incoming weather. Ryan takes a picture of the span of the sky, tags it with #okwx and posts it on Twitter. Predictably, his phone starts to chime almost immediately, but Ryan silences it and tosses it onto the driver’s seat through the open window. He’ll look for anything interesting in his notifications later. </p><p>He turns back around, towards the still brilliant sky. </p><p>Hours later, with the sun sinking below the horizon, even Ryan’s famous optimism runs dry. There’s been nothing all day, other than the squall further north and even that was short-lived. Ryan sighs into his bag of Doritos. Bust days suck. </p><p>He balls up the empty bag and tosses it into the passenger seat to join the detritus of the rest of a day’s worth of snacks. Putting his vehicle in gear, Ryan executes a lovely four point turn on this narrow stretch of dirt road and heads back towards the direction of town. The radio hums, a local station crackling in between the fuzzy static. It reminds Ryan of the first time he caught a storm on camera. </p><p>It was late in the spring semester, and homesick and stressed, Ryan had pointed his car out of town and kept going until he was surrounded on all sides by corn and swaying wheat. The sky overhead had been a roiling mass of clouds, and Ryan had watched, awestruck, as the storm passed, the wind buffeting him from all sides and the rain a torrent. He’d gotten out of his car to watch it go, and snapped a picture of the back-end of the storm; eerie mammatus clouds hanging in glowing globes over the farmhouses and silos.</p><p>After that, Ryan was out every weekend, and some weeknights, chasing lightning strikes. He’s had some closer calls, but has always tried to stay well clear of the stuff other people drive into. He likes his vast panoramas of the prairie sky, towering thunderheads lit up by afternoon sunlight, or crawling with lightning in the dark. </p><p>This year though, he has a hankering. </p><p>Late in the fall last year, he’d spent two days at a workshop in Norman, learning how to read the radar, how to be in a safe spot, and how to read the sky, because this year, this year, Ryan is going to bag himself a tornado.</p><p>Ryan pulls into the hotel parking lot. He’s not the only chaser parking here for the night, he’s sure, as he cruises down the length of cars, covered in mud, and one, notably, dinged with hail damage all over the hood. Ryan pulls up to his room and takes a moment of silence before getting out of the car. He is both exhausted and wound. </p><p>Inside his room, he flops down onto the nearest bed, and opens up his phone. At the top of his list of notifications is one that makes his breath catch in nervous excitement. @ShalexandejWX has followed him back. </p><p>Ryan grins to himself. It’s stupid to be excited about this probably, Shane follows like, hundreds of people, Ryan is sure, but he’s been following Shane for ages. </p><p>Shane’s been a fixture in the online storm chasing community for years, easily available on Twitter, happy to respond to questions and share his knowledge, and Ryan’s always been more than a little into the way Shane’s hair flops into his face in the rare selfies he posts on his feed. Ryan clicks through to Shane’s profile, and before he second-guesses himself, he clicks on the little message icon and taps out a quick thank you for following and hits send. </p><p>His heart is racing and nerves swell in his gut, but he ignores them, and rolls over, tossing his phone down and pushing himself to his feet. He’ll hit the gym, find some dinner, and go to bed early, tomorrow will be a better weather day, Ryan is sure.</p><p> </p><p>-:-</p><p> </p><p>Bust days are the worst. </p><p>Shane’s team trudges back to their hotel, tired and hot and hungry. Because it was his hunch they followed out into the wilds of Kansas, Shane stands them all a round at the hotel bar. He nurses his solitary beer and referees a discussion on that particular brand of bad science in early aughts disaster movies between TJ and Mark. </p><p>They’re pretty much the only people in the hotel, not too many folks spending time in deep western Kansas this time of the year. Or ever, Shane thinks, wry. He sips his beer, finding himself at the bottom of the glass without realising how quickly he’d gotten there. </p><p>“I’m heading up,” Katie says, into the silence following TJ’s pronouncement that tomorrow they better get something or he will have to resort to performing ritual sacrifice. Devon follows Katie back to their shared room. Shane watches them go, their heads bent towards each other as they talk. </p><p>He looks back over the table and sees Mark showing TJ something on his phone and decides he’s done for the day himself. He needs to sleep. It feels like he can still hear the hum of the van’s tires under him, still feel the vibration of the road in the soles of his feet.</p><p>Alone in his room, Shane thumbs through his Twitter feed, noticing almost absently when the notification that he has a new direct message pops up. He gets a reasonable amount of DMs, which he assumes is because he does try really hard to answer people in his mentions and replies, to discourage the masses from DM’ing him to ask weather questions.</p><p>When he pulls up the messaging screen, the top-most message is from @windsheared. It’s a simple thank you for following, and Shane finds himself smiling down at the words on his screen. He taps back a note about the nice photo and asks whether Ryan had had any luck today, then closes the app, and reaches out for the TV remote, flipping through the local stations to find something showing an old black and white Hitchcock special, and promptly, falls asleep.</p><p> </p><p>-:-</p><p> </p><p>It’s early May. </p><p>Ryan wakes to the sound of his phone alarm before the sun is even over the horizon. He rolls over in today’s hotel room, and pulls his phone towards him. </p><p>The SPC convective discussions are already in his inbox, and the model runs are waiting for him to watch them. He also has the usual outpouring of notifications from Twitter and Instagram, but he ignores them in favour of checking in on the local weather hashtag. He also saves the usual morning DM from Shane, knowing he’ll want to read it when he’s more awake than not.</p><p>After he showers, Ryan heads down for breakfast in the hotel lobby and parks himself and his laptop in one corner of the room. As he makes his way through a bowl of cereal, a banana and a cup of something that might’ve been coffee in another life, he listens to the conversation of the group of chasers he saw pull in last night while he was leaning against the railing on the walkway outside of his room. </p><p>The air had been heavy-hot, and he’d just finished a tightly rolled pinner, needing something to take the edge of driving all day off his brain. </p><p>They’d all piled out of their van, carting laptop bags and luggage and Ryan had watched. </p><p>This morning, they’re all sitting together in a group at several tables pushed together, laptops in the centre. Ryan can see one of the screens, a model looping across it, in shades of vivid red. He pulls up his own notes, and runs the forecast again, checking the more recent sounding from OKC. He also opens Shane’s DM, grinning to himself at the meme Shane’s sent him, and then reading the answer to the question Ryan had asked the day before about the damage path on a storm in the Texas panhandle. </p><p>It would track, of course, that Ryan would be in Oklahoma when the weather is back home. He sighs, and goes back to looking at the model runs for the afternoon.</p><p>The group of chasers continue arguing over where they want to set up today, one of the women getting up to point her finger at the map on the laptop screen, and then turn it around to show one of the guys at the table. It sounds like a conversation they’ve been having for hours. </p><p>Ryan finishes his coffee and stands. He has a long haul ahead of him. </p><p>There will be severe weather today, he knows, and he is determined to be in the right spot at the right time. He’s been cheated out of the storms this year, keeps picking the wrong cell, being just too far south or too far north or, one time, one county over from a vicious EF4 that levelled an entire small town. </p><p>He’s confident today though, sure in his predictions. </p><p>Ryan drives out to his target spot, bumping along dirt roads until he reaches the crossroads he’s been looking for. He pulls off to the side of the road and pulls out his laptop, tethering it to his phone so he can refresh the model runs and see whether there’ve been any updates to the convective forecasts for the day. </p><p>His eyes widen as the warnings load across the page. This is the first PDS day they’ve had all year, and the warning language could not be more unequivocal. </p><p> </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>URGENT - IMMEDIATE BROADCAST REQUESTED<br/>
Tornado Watch Number 214<br/>
NWS Storm Prediction Center Norman OK </p>
  <p>1045 AM CDT Tues May 12 2020</p>
  <p>The NWS Storm Prediction Center has issued a </p>
  <p>*Tornado watch for portions of<br/>
West-Central Oklahoma<br/>
Central Kansas</p>
  <p><br/>
*Effective this Tuesday morning, afternoon and even, from 1045am until 900pm CDT.</p>
  <p>*This is a PARTICULARLY DANGEROUS SITUATION</p>
  <p>*Primary threats include…<br/>
Numerous tornadoes expected with a few intense tornadoes likely<br/>
Widespread large hail and isolated very large hail events to 3 inches in diameter expected<br/>
Widespread damaging wind gusts in excess of 60mph likely. </p>
  <p>SUMMARY … </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>Ryan scrolls through the summary and then backs out of his email and pulls up Twitter. The local hashtags are full of folks discussing positioning and sharing looping gifs of model runs. Ryan looks out at the corn fields outside his window. The tops of the stalks bend and shift in the wind, like the ripple of a wave coming across a long expanse of flat water. </p><p>He’s got a few hours to kill here til the storms fire, so he sets an alarm on his phone, and settles more deeply into the driver’s seat of his truck. He pulls his hat down over his face, and lets himself sink into a doze. </p><p> </p><p>-:-</p><p> </p><p>Ryan wakes up to the sound of his alarm and a gust of wind rocking his truck. The sky overhead is still summer sunshine, but on the horizon, to the southwest, dark clouds are building. The winds aloft shear the thunderheads into anvils, and Ryan blinks, watching the line advance. </p><p>He shakes himself when another gust of wind shakes the truck. He pushes the key to refresh his radar screen and gets out of the truck to reassess his position. Ryan props the laptop on the hood of the car, and pulls up the local map on his phone, checking the positioning of the storm against the position of potential getaway routes. </p><p>He should be okay here. He has a way to break both southeast and due north, depending on the movement of the storm and what kind of core is building inside it. He looks up from his screen, and scans the horizon again. </p><p>The clouds are coming in, the gust front starting to form on the leading edge. The wind around him dies, and Ryan shivers, his skin prickling in the sudden, cloying silence. Thunder rumbles, a low warning, and Ryan’s phone chimes with another alert. He reaches back through the window, grabbing his camera, and starts taking pictures.</p><p> </p><p>-:-</p><p> </p><p>“Get the drones ready,” Shane barks into the walkie talkie in his hand, as he sends the truck into a skidding stop just across a small bridge over an irrigation canal. His team scrambles out to do as they’re told. It’s a well-oiled machine now, they’ve all been chasing together all season. </p><p>Shane gets out and goes to stand in front of the truck, his back to the line of storms and pulls out his phone. He records a quick video for Twitter, turning to gesture at the storm behind himself, it’s dark clouds piling on and on, the towers growing taller and taller until they shear off into the flat-topped anvils that signal thunderstorms. </p><p>The wind tastes wet. There’s no cool in it yet, just heat and potential. Shane shoves his phone into his pocket and walks to the back of the truck. </p><p>They’re in three vehicles this chase. Shane in the truck, Mark and Devon in the smaller car and TJ and Katie in the little sport-utility vehicle that Katie keeps calling ‘the cute-ute’ in a truly god-awful approximation of an Australian accent. </p><p>“Okay, gang,” he says, and they all gather around. Devon’s holding one of their probes cradled against her chest, it’s red and white paint and thick plexiglass dome looking like a shield. “PDS day today,” Shane begins. Everyone nods. “No stupid risks, we stay in contact, and if anything looks hairy, you split. Forget the drones, forget the science. We do not die for data.” </p><p>The chorus of “Yes, chef!” makes Shane’s mouth turn up at the corners. He’ll be sorry to lose this group of students to their own careers when they eventually complete their research and finish writing papers, they’ve been a lot of fun. </p><p>He watches as Devon and Mark pull out, running down towards the storm. They’re going to be the closest to the line, trying to place their probes directly in the path of any oncoming tornado and then getting the fuck out, like they’ve been taught. There’s only the usual amount of worry in Shane’s gut about it, he knows they know how to keep themselves as safe as they can. </p><p>You don’t chase storms like this because you don’t like a little bit of an adrenaline rush. </p><p>TJ and Katie pull off in the other direction, to launch drones into the outflow to measure windspeed on the lee side of the storm. </p><p>Shane gets back into the truck, snaps his laptop into the console on the dash, and puts his earpiece into his ear. </p><p>“Eagle one to Dorothy and the Tin Man, over?” he says, grinning to himself. It’s dumb, the way the storm chasing community holds on so tightly to Oz. He does love it though and absolutely perpetuates it. When he’s in one of the smaller chase cars and not tied to the truck and the command centre, his call sign is Scarecrow. </p><p>Devon’s voice comes in, clear over the phone line. “Tin Man to Eagle One,” she says, and Shane can hear the eyeroll in her voice. </p><p>“Yeah, Devon,” Shane says, eyes on the radar loop in front of him. </p><p>“Gonna be a doozy,” she says, and Shane can hear the sounds of her and Mark getting out of the car. He hears the click of the shutter of Mark’s camera and underneath it, the low roll of thunder. </p><p>Shane agrees with Devon’s assessment. “There’s already a notch on the radar, looks like the line is gonna try and get discrete.” </p><p>“Just south of us, yeah?” Devon says, and Shane refreshes his radar loop and adds in the pins for Devon’s position, tracked to the phone she’s holding to her ear. </p><p>“Closing fast,” Shane says. </p><p>“Oh,” Devon says, and the note of awe in her voice tells Shane enough. </p><p>“Get your probes down and get out,” he says, and Devon makes a noise of affirmation. The line goes silent and Shane tries to ignore the roll of nerves in his gut. </p><p>The radar loop on the screen refreshes, new data loading in. Shane sees it then. The hook. The tell-tale sign of rotation in the radar signature of the storm. </p><p>“It’s on the ground,” Devon’s voice comes back, into Shane’s ear. “It’s huge,” she says, breathless. “Still growing, nothing in her way for miles.” </p><p>“Call it in,” Shane instructs, then, softer, “get out safe.” </p><p>Devon hums into her phone and Shane can hear Mark swearing beside her. “Look after yourself,” Devon says, “we’re coming back to you.” </p><p>Shane lets the call go without a goodbye and checks in with TJ and Katie. </p><p>“Thing’s a fuckin’ monster,” TJ says into the phone, “you should be able to see it now.” </p><p>Shane turns to look out the truck window. The sky is black, and around him, the corn tops are still. Nothing moves. The air feels terrifyingly full. Shane looks under the storm. It takes him a moment, but then he sees it, backlit by a flash of lightning. </p><p>All the hair stands up on the back of Shane’s neck. </p><p> </p><p>-:-</p><p> </p><p>Lightning sizzles across the sky over Ryan’s head. Thunder follows in a roll so deep that Ryan can feel it thudding through his sternum. </p><p>“Jesus!” He yells, turning away from the road in front of him to look out the window at the column of spiraling wind churning across the field towards him. The car’s wheels slip in the soft shoulder, before catching and rocketing Ryan forward, skidding across gravel. Ryan hauls on the wheel, trying to get the car to straighten out before it sends him into the ditch on the other side of the road. “Shit, shit, shit!” </p><p>Ryan’s been doing this long enough to know that he needs to run. </p><p>“Come on,” Ryan pleads as the car struggles, then grips and hurtles down the hill, towards Ryan’s getaway route to the north. </p><p>For half a second, Ryan lets himself feel the triumph of escape. He’s gonna make it.</p><p>The rain comes like it’s been poured out of a bucket straight onto Ryan’s head. It’s a waterfall of water, and the wipers can’t keep up even at their highest setting. His phone is still recording, but Ryan ignores it in favour of creeping slowly down the road, trying to peer through the rain over his right shoulder to see if he can still see the tornado. </p><p>The wind lashes the rain against the windows, a constant stream of icy cold water punctuated by the distinct sound of hail pinging off the roof and hood. Ryan grimaces and wills his windshield to hold out. </p><p>As suddenly as it came on, the rain stops, and Ryan floors it. The car punches forward, rattling over the uneven dirt road. Ryan chances a glance out the window to his side. </p><p>The tornado has grown. It’s widened, thickened, and Ryan can see the satellite vortices swirling around the main funnel. It’s coming on fast. </p><p>Ryan’s heart thunders in his ears, and all he can hear is the harsh sound of his breath. He’s too close, still. </p><p>The car lurches, and Ryan jerks the wheel, over-correcting and sending the car sliding across the loose gravel and down into the soft shoulder, front wheels digging in and pulling Ryan further into the ditch. Ryan throws the car into reverse, but it’s no use, he is well and truly stuck.</p><p>“No, no, no,” Ryan moans, slamming his palm into the steering wheel. </p><p>The freight train sound of the wind increases gradually, and Ryan turns, looking out the back window of his car, watching the funnel get closer and closer. It’s hard to tell at this distance what’s wall cloud and what’s funnel, with the storm lowered so close to the ground. </p><p>There’s a burst of blue light along the base, and Ryan flinches. Power flash. </p><p>This is it, he thinks. One too many chances. Everyone runs out of luck sooner or later, but he never thought it would be so soon. He’s not even thirty yet. This is going to kill his mom and dad, learning that he’s been caught in a mile-wide tornado, mangled into the wreckage of his car. Ryan sucks in a breath. </p><p>Getting out of the car is one way to survive. He could get out, run as far as he can, throw himself into the ditch and cover his head. He might still die. Paralyzed by the choice of how he would prefer to face the oncoming beast, Ryan can’t move. He blinks, staring unseeing at the green grass of the ditch, swaying in the inflow winds.</p><p>He can’t breathe. </p><p> </p><p>-:-</p><p> </p><p>Shane is racing up a county road, barrelling ahead of the storm when he sees it. A car, nose first into the ditch. He slows, approaching the crossroads, knowing he has barely enough time to see if anyone is in the vehicle. </p><p>There’s someone there. </p><p>Shane throws the truck into park, and leaps out, running flat out for the ditched vehicle. </p><p>“Hey!” he yells, as he approaches. “Hey!” </p><p>The man in the truck turns to look at him, eyes wide and scared and disbelieving. </p><p>Shane grabs at the door handle. The vehicle is locked. He knocks on the window. “Come on, you gotta get out!” </p><p>The guy in the car seems to move as if through glue, but finally Shane hears the clunk of the lock and he pulls open the door. </p><p>“Dude,” Shane says, looking over his shoulder at the oncoming tornado. “Let’s go. My truck’ll make it. We gotta go, man.” </p><p>The guy looks at Shane, and then his eyes focus on the tornado over Shane’s shoulder. He takes a breath and then he’s moving, grabbing for the phone in the cradle on his dash, and the DSLR camera on the seat next to him. He shoves them at Shane and grabs his laptop, heedless of the cables attached to it. </p><p>Shane catches his camera and phone, and they’re running for Shane’s truck. </p><p>The guy doesn’t say anything until they make it north and then back west, getting behind the line of storms. Shane pulls the truck off to the side of the road, and kills the engine, before looking over at the guy. </p><p>He’s got dark hair, and dark eyes, and is wearing a faded Kansas State t-shirt and soft shorts. He’s holding his laptop in his lap, cradling it like something fragile. Shane had shoved the camera and phone into the backseat, adding them to the jumble of cables and other equipment he hasn’t had time to sort through. </p><p>“Th-thanks,” he says, pushing a shaking hand through his hair. </p><p>Shane’s earpiece comes to life before he can say anything. </p><p>“Dorothy to Eagle One,” Mark says. </p><p>“Go ahead,” Shane replies, tapping the earpiece to let his new passenger know he’s got a call. </p><p>“You okay?” </p><p>“Yeah,” Shane says, looking out his window at the storm rolling further and further away. “You guys?” </p><p>Mark hums. “Think so, we ditched north and ended up punching the core. Windshield’s a loss, and we’re a bit damp, but otherwise alright.” </p><p>Shane nods his head, forgetting that Mark can’t see him. </p><p>Mark continues anyway; “You hear from Teej and Katie?” </p><p>“Not yet,” Shane says, and he reaches for his laptop, flipping the screen up. “Ping your locator, I’ll come get you. Call Katie’s phone, Teej’s carrier is always fucked after a storm.”  </p><p>“Roger,” Mark says, and the call drops. </p><p>“Sorry about that,” Shane says. He looks over at his passenger. “I’m Shane.” </p><p>“Uh—” the guy says, then his eyes widen. “Shane? Shane Madej?”  </p><p>Shane nods. </p><p>“Oh, wow! Uh—I’m Ryan. I’ve followed you on twitter forever,” he says, “like, since before you were on Discovery.” </p><p>Oh. A fan. He rescued a fan. And a dumb one at that, if the place he’d been is any indication. Shane starts the car, and leans up to refresh the map on his laptop, seeing Mark and Devon’s location pin light up on the screen. </p><p>“Wanna tell me what you were doing in the worst place possible during a PDS warning?” Shane asks, as he pulls the truck back onto the road, executing a u-turn to head back towards where he’d picked up Ryan. </p><p>“I wasn’t trying to be there,” Ryan says, defensively. “Had my escape mapped out—woulda ended up here if I hadn’t gotten stuck.” </p><p>Shane hums, turning down a concession, two over from the one they’d run from the tornado on. Ryan looks over at Shane and then back out the window. </p><p>“I’m not an idiot,” Ryan says, “I know where I need to be to stay safe. That thing came on so fast. I didn’t have a chance to get out of the way.” Ryan shivers. </p><p>Shane knows the feeling. Close calls always leave him a little rattled afterwards. He decides, magnanimously, not to scold Ryan until after he picks up Devon and Mark and hears from Katie and TJ. </p><p> </p><p>-:-</p><p> </p><p>It takes Ryan until they’ve met up with the rest of Shane’s crew, before he realises that all he has with him are his laptop, phone, camera, wallet and the clothes on his back. Everything else is probably gone. He was almost gone, too. The realisation knocks him off his feet, and he stumbles back into the side of Shane’s truck. </p><p>Shane turns at the sound of body hitting body, and his eyes narrow in concern. Soon everyone else is following Shane’s gaze. </p><p>“Ryan?” Shane asks, from closer than Ryan had thought he was. Ryan looks up, blinking away the tunneling of his vision as the postponed panic tries to grab hold of his nerves. “Hey,” Shane says, voice soft. Ryan feels the warmth of a body next to his, but he can’t make his head turn to look and see who it is. “Ryan. Hey. You’re okay,” Shane is saying, but it sounds like it’s a million miles away. </p><p>He feels himself being pushed down to sitting on the step leading into the backseat, and then the firm pressure of a hand between his shoulder blades, pushing him down until his face is resting on his knees. Above him, he can hear the low rumble of Shane’s voice, but it melts into static as Ryan sucks in breath after breath, gasping into the fabric of his shorts. </p><p>It takes several minutes, each of them excruciating, before Ryan can think about more than how to get the next breath. The conversation over his head is still jumbled, the words coming in snatches and making no sense. He opens his eyes and stares at the gravel shoulder between his shoes, counting the stones until the buzzing in his ears stops and sound comes back from wherever it went. </p><p>He shifts, bringing his hands up to cover his face. The conversation happening around him dies. </p><p>“You back with us?” It’s one of Shane’s grad students asking. One of the girls. Ryan can’t remember her name. He sniffs, swallows, and sits up. Her blonde hair is pulled back from her face and dark eyebrows are drawn down sympathetically over dark eyes. She smiles when Ryan nods. “Good man,” she says, and steps back to give him a little more space. </p><p>“Sorry,” Ryan gets out, his voice hoarse. </p><p>“Happens to the best of us,” another voice says. This one is TJ, Ryan is pretty sure. He’s got a beard and is wearing a faded band t-shirt under a flannel. If Ryan’s right, this is Shane’s right-hand navigator. </p><p>Behind them, the sun is sinking into the west, turning the sky to gold and crimson. </p><p>“Where were you staying?” TJ asks. </p><p>“Ah,” he says, “I hadn’t picked anywhere yet. Was gonna check in after the storm. Never know where you might end up.” Ryan shrugs, as if to demonstrate the universality of his statement. There’s an air of general agreement amongst the gathered grad students.</p><p>“We’re booked in at a place in Norman,” the other woman offers. Her long, brownish hair is loose around her shoulders. “I’m sure you could get a room there.” </p><p>Shane comes back around the other side of the truck then, conferring in quiet tones with the remaining member of his team. </p><p>"You’re staying with us, Ryan,” Shane says, “we’ll figure out what to do about your car in the morning when we go back for the probes.” </p><p>Ryan slides to his feet. “Okay,” he says, the word steadier than he feels. </p><p>“Gotta stand you at least one drink for what you went through today,” Shane says, with a grin, and then, addressing his team; “let’s get back to the hotel. We’ve gotta get up and gone early tomorrow, looks like another outbreak in Kansas, day after tomorrow.” </p><p>Ryan climbs into the truck after Shane, grateful once again, for the serendipity of Shane coming down that concession and seeing Ryan stuck. He tries hard not to dwell on what might’ve happened had Shane not chosen that escape route. </p><p> </p><p>-:-</p><p> </p><p>It’s not long before everyone is piling out of their vehicles, into the parking lot of a Motel Six. Ryan helps unload equipment, and helps carry it into the various rooms the team is staying in. By the time they’re all unloaded, dusk has truly fallen, and Ryan takes one last long look at the sky before going into the lobby. </p><p>He manages to get a room, and with a promise to meet Shane down in the lobby in an hour, heads upstairs. </p><p>The slam of the door closing behind him is the first time he’s been alone since he was sitting in his car thinking he might die. Ryan’s heart gallops in his chest, and his stomach turns. He dumps his laptop onto the nearest bed and races for the bathroom, thinking he’s going to be sick. </p><p>Nothing comes up, but Ryan stays on his knees on the bathroom floor, leaning against the edge of the tub for long enough that his feet start to go numb. He stares at the pattern on the tiles until his vision blurs and then stares some more. That was too close today. Anyone smarter than him would quit immediately, get on the first flight home, and hide from the weather for the rest of their lives. </p><p>Ryan knows he’s not going to quit though. Even though he has never been so scared in his life, he knows that he’ll keep trying to get the best shot, keep trying to find the perfect angle, and probably, keep ending up in situations like today. Hopefully, not so harrowing. He blinks, and curls one hand into a fist, pushing himself up off the floor and up to sitting on the edge of the tub.</p><p>A shower seems like something he should do after at least two, maybe three, panic sweats, so Ryan pushes himself to standing. He wobbles a little, but his knees hold. He looks himself in the eye in the mirror for a long moment, and then moves to get the shower running. </p><p> </p><p>-:-</p><p> </p><p>Fortified after a shower, but still wearing the same clothes he came to the hotel in, he goes down to meet Shane in the lobby. </p><p>Shane’s already there, chatting with his team. </p><p>“Hi,” Ryan says, walking up to the group of them. “Sorry, I feel like I missed all of your names earlier. I’m Ryan.” </p><p>“Oh!” Shane says, “sorry. My bad. I probably didn’t introduce everyone. This is Devon, Katie, Mark and TJ,” he says, pointing at everyone. </p><p>Ryan was right about who was who earlier. He’s briefly proud of his panicked brain for managing that. “Thanks again for getting me out earlier,” he says to Shane. </p><p>Shane nods. “Wasn’t gonna just, like, drive by and leave you to the tornado,” he says, lightly. “Let’s get a drink, and you can tell us how you ended up there, of all places.” </p><p>They end up in the bar at the Outback Steakhouse down the road, sharing a pitcher of beer and several orders of nachos. </p><p>“So,” Katie says, into a lull in the conversation. “What’re you doing out here, Ryan?” </p><p>Ryan lifts his beer, and takes a sip to give himself a chance to answer. Everyone’s eyes turn towards him. “I’m a photographer,” he says. </p><p>“How long have you been chasing?” Mark asks. </p><p>Ryan thinks back. “Been about five years now,” Ryan replies. “I grew up in Los Angeles, but left to go to school in Kansas. I started in undergrad and just never stopped.” He shrugs. </p><p>Devon asks a question about what Ryan studied and the conversation moves on, out of chasing territory and back to the pains of university life. Ryan gets the low-down on everyone’s specialisations, and manages to ask smart questions about Katie’s dissertation. </p><p>It’s Shane who finally asks, once they’ve all eaten as much as they could, and finished another pitcher between the five of them. “What were you doing out there today?” </p><p>Ryan sighs. “Been a shitty season so far,” he says, and they nod, commiserating. “Probably shouldn’t have stayed as long as I did, but I haven’t had many chances to get any good footage this year.” Ryan curls his hands around his glass. He looks over at Shane, seated diagonally across from him. “Don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t come by,” he says. Shane returns his gaze, brown eyes steady on Ryan’s. </p><p>Ryan remembers the sight of him at his window, hair in disarray from the gusting wind and shirt spattered with rain drops. He remembers groping for the lock, and then the sprint to Shane’s truck. Remembers sitting in the passenger seat, holding his laptop like a lifeline, watching the tornado in the side mirror as they fled.</p><p>“Shane said he got your camera and your phone,” Devon says, and Ryan nods. </p><p>“Yeah. Got my laptop too, and my wallet, but not much else.” </p><p>The TV over the bar switches to the news broadcast, and everyone’s attention turns towards the aerial footage of the damage path. The closed captioning on the screen spells it out but no one at their table needs it to. The flattened buildings, the twisted trees, the foundations swept clean. It was an EF5, and everyone in its path is lucky to be alive today. Ryan included. He knocks back the rest of his beer, and sets the empty glass down, maybe a little harder than he needs to. </p><p>Beside him, Katie nudges his shoulder with hers. “So, a photographer, eh?” she asks. “Do you post your pictures anywhere?” </p><p>“Oh, yeah, sure,” Ryan says, and wakes up his phone, tapping through to his Instagram account. He pushes the phone towards Katie. “I post on twitter too, and sometimes livestream chases on Periscope.” He blinks. “Or, well, I did, I guess.” </p><p>Katie scrolls through Ryan’s Instagram account, and then back up to the links for his Twitter and taps through to it. “Oh!” she says, and nudges the phone across the table to Shane. “Look!” </p><p>Shane looks down. “It’s you!” he says, “I should have known. You took that shot of the mothership cell the other week.” </p><p>“Oh,” Ryan says. Pride blooms in his chest, thawing the places that remained cold from the earlier panic. “Yeah, I did. First good storm of the season.” </p><p>The conversation swings back to sharing stories about other near misses, and Katie retrieves Ryan’s phone from in front of Shane. Ryan basks in the story telling, laughing with the group when Shane regales them all with a story from when he was writing his grad thesis and ended up chased off a property in Tennessee by a pair of very belligerent goats. </p><p>They disperse for the hotel not too long after that. </p><p>Shane catches the sleeve of Ryan’s t-shirt as he passes, and Ryan slows, letting the rest of the group get ahead of them. </p><p>“I’m glad you’re alright,” Shane says, and Ryan nods. </p><p>“Thanks again. So much. I thought I was a goner for sure.” A nervous laugh bubbles up through Ryan’s words. </p><p>“We’ll take you out to your truck in the morning,” Shane says. “Get some rest, we’ll want to be up and gone before nine.” </p><p>Ryan nods. Shane meets his eyes again, gaze searching and Ryan seizes on the first thing that runs through his brain. “Hey, give me your number, then you can text me where to meet you guys in the morning.” </p><p>Shane’s eyebrows go up, but he doesn’t refuse so Ryan hands him his phone and waits while Shane programs himself into Ryan’s contacts. When Shane hands Ryan back his phone, he fires off a quick text to Shane’s number. </p><p>Shane leaves Ryan in the elevator, heading up to his floor, alone. Ryan goes to bed, sinking into the fresh hotel sheets with a long sigh. He begged a charging cord off the front desk when he checked in, so at least he’ll have a full charge on his phone for tomorrow.</p><p> </p><p>-:-</p><p> </p><p>Morning finds Ryan eating a bagel in the passenger seat of Shane’s truck as they ride out to where Shane picked him up the day before. Anxiety churns in Ryan’s stomach, fizzling out along his nerves as they get closer and closer. They drive in along the damage path, and Ryan tries not to gawk at how little is left of things that the tornado hit. </p><p>“We’ll come back through here, once we’ve got our gear, and see if we can help with the damage survey,” Shane says, and Ryan nods. </p><p>A woman standing in the driveway leading to a pile of wood that was her house lifts her arms up and rests her palms on the top of her head, looking at what she has left. She’s wearing rubber boots. A man joins her, and pulls her into an embrace. Ryan looks away. </p><p>“People are resilient out here,” Shane says, “they’ll be rebuilding inside the month.”</p><p>He slows to a stop at an intersection where the traffic lights have all been pulled down and rest in a jumble on one corner. Ryan’s hands itch for his camera, left behind in the hotel room with his laptop. He’s hoping at least one of his gear bags made it through unscathed. Shane drives on, slow and steady, past a church whose roof has been completely torn off and dumped into the used car lot across the road. </p><p>The gold accents on the crucifix that stands in the nave of the now open air church glint in the morning sun. Ryan resists the deep-seated urge to cross himself and they continue on, out of the little grouping of houses that makes up this crossroads town and back out into the fields. </p><p>Shane stops at a stop sign, squinting at the signpost behind his glasses. “Was it this one?” he asks, looking down the road both ways. Ryan looks too. All the cornfields look the same to him. </p><p>“I’m not sure,” he says. </p><p>Shane shrugs, and turns left. “We’ll figure it out. I know where I came from to get to you, so if we have to, we can come from that direction.” </p><p>They keep driving, but have to stop and back-track when they find the way blocked by a group of downed power lines. </p><p>“Oh,” Ryan says, when they turn down the next road they can. “I remember this.” He does. He remembers the hill to their left. His car should be at the corner of the next concession block. </p><p>They come to the intersection, and Ryan directs Shane to turn left. Shane does. </p><p>“There,” Ryan says, scanning the shoulder. He points to the furrows in the soft dirt. Shane stops and Ryan gets out, shoes crunching gravel as he crosses the road. He looks out into the field and the sight that meets him stops him cold. </p><p>His car is a wreck. Thrown at least 100 feet into the cornfield, it’s a mess of broken glass and battered metal. He’d never have survived. The corn is flattened on both sides of the road, but not much further into the field than where his car is. </p><p>“A satellite vortex?” Ryan says, as he takes a step forward and then down into the ditch, hopping over the water at the base, and climbing up the other side. </p><p>He hears Shane following him. “Maybe,” Shane allows, huffing as he climbs up the ditch and into the field behind Ryan..</p><p>Ryan walks towards his car, heart in his throat. </p><p>Behind them, there’s the sound of car doors closing. </p><p>Ryan reaches the wreckage of his vehicle, and stands, surveying it, for a long moment. Shane comes up beside him. Ryan looks up and over at him. Shane’s face is very serious, studying the spiderweb cracks in the glass of the closest window. </p><p>Ryan’s stomach turns over, and he goes hot all over, skin prickling. Looking at the car from closer, it’s even more obvious that if he’d been in it when it got picked up, he’d be dead. It looks like it got picked up and thrown at the ground like a child’s toy. He reaches out a trembling hand to touch the bent metal of the door, and then has to turn away. He makes it three steps before he’s leaning over to retch. </p><p>When he’s finished, and after giving himself a couple of deep breaths to make sure, Ryan stands again. Devon’s waiting, not too far off, with a bottle of water that she hands to him wordlessly. Ryan rinses his mouth, spits, and then sucks back the rest of the bottle in a long swallow. </p><p>Mark and TJ have started to try and wrench one of the doors open, and Ryan moves to give them a hand. The metal gives with a terrible noise and they’re able to open it far enough that Ryan can stick his head in far enough to see if he can grab any of his things. One gear bag is in the backseat, and Ryan wriggles in further, reaching to grab it. </p><p>He hauls it back towards him, and shifts to get out of the vehicle. Miraculously, it’s the bag that holds his other camera, and a jumble of cords. He draws the camera out of the bag. The lens is busted, crushed by something else in the car or by impact with the ground, but the camera body seems to have made it. </p><p>It’s a small victory, and one that buoys Ryan through the next hours, while he calls his insurance company, several different towing companies and tries to locate a rental car. </p><p>Many hours later, the tow company that agreed to come and help get Ryan’s car out of the field and onto a flatbed to take to the scrap yard, drops him and what the other effects he was able to salvage from the car back at the hotel. </p><p>He has to go and wrangle a rental in the morning, but for now, he wants another shower, and a hamburger, not necessarily in that order. </p><p>Ryan’s phone lights up just as he’s getting out of the shower. It’s a text from Shane, wondering if Ryan wants to have dinner with him again tonight. </p><p>Ryan thinks about Shane. </p><p>This morning, before they’d left him in and his phone in the field, with admonishments to call if he needed a ride back to town, Shane had stood close to Ryan, while Ryan picked through the contents of another bag he’d been able to liberate from the clutches of the mangled interior of his car. </p><p>“Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help,” Shane had said, and before he’d stepped away, he’d dropped one hand onto Ryan’s shoulder. His palm had covered the whole thing, and Ryan recalls the warmth of Shane’s skin seeping through his shirt. </p><p>Ryan had nodded and Shane’s hand had slipped off Ryan’s shoulder and then he’d been rounding up his team and herding them back their vehicles, turning at the edge of the field to lift a hand in a careless wave that Ryan had returned, his attention mostly on the ringing phone he was holding up to his ear. </p><p>Now, Ryan looks down at his phone and types out a yes before he can think anymore about it. </p><p>He rounds up one of his clean shirts (rescued from his mostly intact duffel bag, which was really excellent, because having to buy clothes in a strange town is always a weird thing to do), and slides socked feet into his shoes. </p><p>He meets Shane in the lobby. “Where’s everyone else?” Ryan asks, looking around for the rest of the team. </p><p>“Ah,” Shane rubs the back of his neck. “They made other plans.” He looks over at Ryan and there’s something cagey in the corner of his mouth, something Ryan wants to bury before it can consume the assessing way Shane looks at him. “Is that a problem?” </p><p>“No, no,” Ryan rushes to assuage. “Where do you think we could get a burger around here? I want to eat one the size of my head.” </p><p>Shane laughs, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Yeah, okay,” he says, “come on.” </p><p> </p><p>-:-</p><p> </p><p>One burger roughly the size of his head later, Ryan feels much better about himself and his life choices. He looks across the table at Shane, watching him pick out a fry and slide it through the glob of ketchup on the side of his plate. He’s got nice hands, so sue Ryan for looking. </p><p>“So,” Shane says, and Ryan lifts his gaze from where Shane’s brushing salt off the ends of his fingers. “Where are you heading tomorrow?” </p><p>Ryan makes a face and shoves a hand through his hair. “I dunno,” he says, on a sigh. “I have to call the car rental place, and see if they have a vehicle and then, I guess I’m flying home? I don’t know.” Ryan looks down at his plate. He feels exhausted just contemplating all the things he has to do in order to tie up all the loose ends. </p><p>“Why don’t you come to Kansas with us tomorrow?” Shane suggests. “One thing none of us is, is a photographer, so you’d be useful. You can bunk in with me, I always end up the odd man out in the hotel room roulette.” Shane picks up another fry. </p><p>Ryan turns over the suggestion in his mind. If he goes with them to Kansas, he has a chance to get some really good shots, the selling of which will help refill the hole in his savings from this disastrous season. Even if they don’t get any really good weather, he’ll get to spend more time with Shane, which certainly seems like something he wants to do significantly more of.</p><p>He’s not sure if he’s latched on to Shane because the guy pulled him out of the path of a tornado, or if he would have found him as endearing if they hadn’t met under mortal peril. Certainly, this was not the meetcute that Ryan had been envisioning for himself, but he’ll take it. </p><p>Something about the way that Shane’s eyes linger, even after only knowing each other for a couple of days, plucks a string in Ryan’s chest, sending a low vibration all through his nerves. </p><p>“The team’ll be okay with me crashing the chase?” Ryan asks. </p><p>Shane waves off his concern with one hand. “Naw, you’re fine, they’ll be happy to have another pair of hands.”</p><p>“Okay,” Ryan says, and the struck chord in Ryan’s chest rings out through his bones. “I’ll come with you.” </p><p>Shane’s answering smile is blinding.</p><p> </p><p>-:-</p><p> </p><p>Having Ryan in the passenger seat next to Shane in the truck is weird for approximately five minutes until Ryan leans over the console at a traffic light and pulls Shane in for a selfie. Ryan’s smile is blinding and Shane can’t help but smile too, caught up in Ryan’s enthusiasm.</p><p>They cross the border into Kansas in the mid-morning and start heading northwest, stopping in Wichita for lunch and to go over the strategy for the afternoon. In the corner booth of a dusty diner, Shane sketches out the game plan. </p><p>The storms are going to be mostly high-based, but there’s always a chance one of the cells could get excited and produce something. Today’s not a do or die kind of a day, they’re mostly here because they were close and it’s better than fourteen hours in another direction to catch a line coming through in the early morning hours. This way, they’ll get to make use of Ryan’s photography skills, since Kansas is flat and full of sky in every direction.</p><p>They break into two groups, leaving the smaller car parked in the diner lot. Shane and Ryan head for higher ground, hoping to get a good panorama of the southwestern sky, to watch the storms roll in and give Ryan the best chance of capturing storm structure. The others are running closer to the line, armed with instrumentation to measure wind speeds on the ground and aloft.</p><p>Ryan’s phone hasn’t stopped dinging with notifications since he posted the selfie on twitter, and Shane can hear his own phone buzzing in it’s holder on the dash.</p><p>Clouds are building on the horizon. Ryan leans out the passenger side window, phone in hand, wind streaming through his hair. He’s talking to the livestream, explaining where they’re going and what the rest of Shane’s team is doing and repeating how excited he is to be in the truck with Shane Madej, Storm Chase Legend. </p><p>Shane shakes his head when Ryan ducks back into the cab of the truck. Ryan grins. </p><p>“We should aim for the boundary,” Ryan suggests, gesturing out in front of them, to where the cumulus clouds are starting to shoot for the top of the troposphere, only for the towers to fall before they quite make it into the shearing winds above. They’ll get there soon, Shane knows, it felt like a storm in the air when they stopped at the last rest stop they’d passed, atmosphere electric and pregnant with anticipation.</p><p>“I was thinking we’d stay a little east of it, let it come to us?” Shane takes a right on a sideroad, and the truck bumps over the pitted gravel road. He leans forward, and points out the dash. “There’s a little hill.” </p><p>Ryan leans forward too. “Oh, yeah, actually, that’s a good idea.” </p><p>“I have those, sometimes,” Shane quips. </p><p>“No, I think just this once,” Ryan argues, but there’s laughter in his eyes.</p><p>Shane keeps driving, ignoring the sound of Ryan shifting around beside him, reaching into the backseat to pull out his bag of gear and start checking his set up. </p><p> </p><p>-:-</p><p> </p><p>The storms keep their promises; staying high-based and full of drifting rain while lightning flashes in and out of the towering clouds. Shane stands next to Ryan on the shoulder of the road while Ryan takes shot after shot, as the clouds get closer and closer. The low roll of thunder is the perfect counterpoint to the click of Ryan’s shutter. </p><p>When the rain comes in, on the heels of a gust of wind that nearly knocks Ryan’s hat off his head, they retreat back to the cab of the truck to wait out the downpour. With the water drumming down on the truck roof, it’s mostly too loud to make any kind of useful conversation, so they sit quietly together, watching the radar scan refresh on Shane’s laptop. </p><p>The downpour is over nearly as quickly as it came on, and as the storm is moving off, they get out again. Ryan pulls his camera back out. </p><p>The late afternoon sun lights up the back of the storm with a brilliant glow, contrasting beautifully against the wheat fields that surround them. Shane takes a few pictures of his own, posting one to his twitter, and tagging Ryan in it. He stuffs his phone back into his pocket, and leans back against the truck, watching the field of wheat undulate in the wind.</p><p>“That was brilliant,” Ryan says, once he’s packed his stuff back into his bag. It was still drizzling when they got out of the truck, so Ryan’s a little damp all over and his shirt clings to his shoulders. His dark hair curls at the nape of his neck.</p><p>Shane decides to blame the way the sunlight catches along the edges of Ryan’s face for what he says next; “You should run out the rest of the season with us.” </p><p>“Really?” Ryan asks. </p><p>Shane nods. “Yeah, why not.” </p><p> </p><p>-:-</p><p> </p><p>They’re back in Kansas, near the end of the chase season, on a day when Shane’s team had other things to do but he had wanted to go out and stand in the weather, one more time. A few miles away, a brilliant white condensation funnel churns across a farmer’s field. </p><p>Shane’s not watching the funnel, he’s watching Ryan. Ryan, who has forgotten his camera, forgotten his phone, and is staring, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.</p><p>They’ve spent the last three weeks in close quarters, and Shane still likes him, still wants to spend another forty hours in a car with Ryan, still wants to share a hotel room with him and listen to him yell about sports when he takes a turn driving and switches Shane’s satellite radio from music to one of the sports talk channels. Still wants to argue with him about how many hot dogs is too many hot dogs (the limit does not exist), whether Cars is a masterpiece or something else (masterpiece), and anything else that Shane thinks he can get a rise out of Ryan with.</p><p>The problem now, is that Shane gets a little giddy when Ryan turns that mile-wide grin on him, gets a little weak in the knees when Ryan looks over at him across the tops of their laptops while they’re mapping out a chase route, gets a little hot under the collar when Ryan slips back into their hotel room, sweaty and flushed from a morning stint in the hotel gym. </p><p>He knows he’s been looking, but it’s hard not to. Ryan just walks around, looking like that, all the time. He’s tried not to, but hasn’t successfully managed to stop himself yet. On the other hand, Ryan doesn’t seem to mind, so Shane keeps looking, keeps wanting.</p><p>The tornado continues on its path. There’s nothing around here for miles, just corn and more corn, so there’s no hurry to get in front of the storm and warn anyone ahead of it. Shane’s phone buzzes with the NWS alert, the noise making Ryan turn away from looking at the storm. His eyes are wide and his cheeks are flushed and Shane thinks he’s beautiful, and then he thinks he ought to not.</p><p>And then, under all that, he thinks that he won’t let Ryan chase with anyone else. Shane will find him the best storms. Shane will stand beside him on the edge of a field in rural Kansas and catch the edge of electricity in the air, that Shane knows is from the thunderheads rolling overhead, but is also, maybe, from the spaces between he and Ryan, positive and negative charges, locked together in perpetual opposing attraction. </p><p>Someday, something’s going to burst between them, white hot and brilliant. Shane fervently hopes it doesn’t end in ruin.</p><p>“Shane!” Ryan says, holding his camera with one hand. “Shane. Holy shit. Do you see it?” </p><p>“Yeah, Ry,” Shane says, laughing. “Not too hard to see over your tiny head,” he teases. </p><p>Ryan scowls, but brightens immediately. “Good thing you’re not standing too close, or I wouldn’t be able to get a good shot with your big head in the way.” </p><p>As far as playful insults go, it’s pretty mild. Shane’s had worse. He plays up his end of their usual schtick, catching Ryan’s phone in his hand. Streaming live on Twitter, Shane is sure. “You wound me, Ryan,” Shane says. “I thought we were friends.” </p><p>“Friends don’t let friends chase tornadoes,” Ryan says loftily. </p><p>Shane snorts. </p><p>Ryan winks, and then pans the camera away from Shane and back towards the tornado.</p><p>Lightning hits a tree less than a mile from them. Shane feels the answering crack of thunder in his bones. </p><p>“Holy shit!” Ryan repeats, and lifts his camera to his eye. The twister is moving off, further and further, as the storm rolls to the east, but Ryan’s shutter is going, and going and going. </p><p> </p><p>-:-</p><p> </p><p>The chase season wraps up with little fanfare, the weather petering out into the high, dry summer of the plains. </p><p>Ryan flies home to Texas in the evening, from Des Moines, and lands at DFW under a starlit sky. The plane ride is quick and painless, and he’s only flying because he never did replace his chase vehicle. </p><p>Deplaned, and standing on the curb of the airport, Ryan hefts his bags. Texas is hot, he can feel the heat of the day emanating from the sidewalk under his shoes. He regrips around the handles of his gear bag, and finds his way to the taxi stand. </p><p>The driver helps him with his gear, and Ryan gives his address around a yawn. He’s suddenly absolutely exhausted, like all the time spent awake and driving all over hell’s seventy thousand acres riding shotgun with Shane has caught up with him now that he’s back, nearly a thousand miles from Shane, who is visiting family back home in Illinois. </p><p>His last text is still at the top of Ryan’s message list. It’s nothing special, just a wish for a safe flight and Ryan’s reply of the same. He sighs, puts his phone down and looks out the window. The city looks the same as it did when he left it, at the beginning of April. Nothing has changed in any meaningful way, it’s still hot and dry. It feels different though, now that he’s been and gone and come back to it. </p><p>The cab pulls up outside his building, and Ryan pays, gathers his things and heads upstairs. His apartment will be dark, and probably dusty and he wishes he’d called to let someone know he was coming so he wouldn’t be arriving to an empty house. </p><p>Ryan falls asleep that night, almost as soon as he lays down, luggage not unpacked, phone dying on his nightstand. </p><p> </p><p>-:-</p><p> </p><p>The summer stretches out in front of Ryan, and he leans on the balcony railing, watching a storm roll by to the north. Every time the lightning flashes, Ryan finds himself thinking of Shane, cast in brief chiaroscuro, the light and shadow making his features stark, during the last real chase of their season.</p><p>The wind had been in their hair, inflow pulling at the hems of their shirts and whipping through the hay field to their left. Late evening sun was still trying to get through the base of the storm, it’s dying light turning the updraft green and giving them a high contrast view of the rotation in the clouds. </p><p>Ryan hadn’t been able to resist snapping a picture of the storm, of Shane looking at the storm, of the storm looking back at Shane. That picture was still doing numbers on his twitter account, people finding it and sharing it and everyone else sharing it all over again. At the time, he’d been worried Shane would notice how obvious he was, but he never seemed to. Never seemed to notice how Ryan would look for him first, how Ryan pushed and prodded and pulled metaphorical pig-tails. Never seemed to notice that Ryan was always, always, looking back.</p><p>He had more from that storm on one of his handful of jump drives, and days and days of editing ahead of him, to turn everything from the many chase days from the raw footage into the prints he could sell to help fund next year’s chase trip. </p><p>Lighting flickers along the edge of the storm, branching fingers reaching for all the edges of the clouds. The thunder that follows is the kind that Ryan’s mom always used to say meant the angels were bowling. </p><p>Shane had called him for the first time a week ago, and Ryan had picked up immediately, thinking something was wrong. They’d just been texting previously, but Shane had opened the conversation with something about how he missed Ryan’s constant chatter from the passenger seat and that driving was much better when you had company. </p><p>They talk every few days now, and text back and forth when they’re not talking on the phone. Shane sends Ryan pictures of his cat, Ryan sends Shane versions of edits of photos, asks questions about cloud features, and debates him about the existence of the supernatural. </p><p>He smiles now, thinking about it. He digs his phone out, and snaps a shot of the back-end of the storm, his timing perfect as it lights up from within at exactly the same time. Shane will appreciate the picture. Ryan sends it, and without waiting for Shane to respond, pockets his phone and turns away from the storm, going back inside to start sorting through his photos.</p><p> </p><p>-:-</p><p> </p><p>In all the excitement of getting to chase tornados with Shane, Ryan had forgotten that TJ and Mark were putting together a documentary about the season. They’d started with using Ryan’s footage, and then started taking their own and soon everyone was filming everyone else. Ryan had forgotten, for the most part, that at any time, someone’s camera could be rolling, while he was doing anything else. </p><p>The film premieres just as summer is drawing it’s last gasp, and on the same weekend that a hurricane pounds into the Gulf coast of Texas, so Ryan is in Galveston and without cell service for nearly twenty-four hours after it drops. The hurricane, called Nadine, comes ashore as a category two and Ryan documents everything he can while sheltering in a concrete parking garage, three stories up. </p><p>The wind is a feverish moan, and the rain comes in sheets. By hour four, Ryan has had enough, and decides he won’t chase another hurricane. He’s soaked through, and so is everything he owns, even though it’s in the car. The wind takes the shingles off many roofs, knocks over trees, lifts anything loose into the sky and the storm surge takes care of anything left behind. </p><p>The next day, when he’s leaving town for the haul home, going against the traffic of people flooding back into the city who had evacuated out, Ryan plugs his phone into his car, and lets it wake up. </p><p>There’s no service yet.</p><p>His phone blows up as he drives north in his new car, the same make and model as the last one, but three years newer, because Ryan’s print sales have been steady enough through the summer that he can afford to upgrade a few things, including his used car standards. Ryan pulls over when the dinging becomes really incessant and plucks his phone from the cradle on the dash. </p><p>“What is going on,” he mutters, unlocking it and thumbing through the notifications. Cars swish past him on the freeway, while Ryan dismisses notification after notification from all his socials. </p><p>There’s also a text from Shane, which Ryan pulls up to answer immediately. </p><p><b>Shane</b>: TJ and Mark’s movie is up! Hope the hurricane treats you well.</p><p>Well that explains the notifications, then. </p><p>Ryan answers that the hurricane was extremely wet and that he’s on his way back to Dallas. Shane replies, almost immediately, because Shane always has his phone handy, and tells him to get home safe. </p><p>Nearly three hours later, Ryan’s parking his car and getting out under sunny Plano skies, stretching his arms over his head. He calls Shane once he’s settled back into his apartment, a load of laundry running and a pizza enroute. </p><p>Shane picks up after the third ring, and Ryan hears the hum of noise in the background that signals Shane’s in the car. “Ryan!” Shane says, and Ryan smiles into the phone. It’s nice to have someone in your life who is always excited to hear from you, after all. </p><p>“Hey, man,” Ryan says. </p><p>“Did you watch the film yet?” Shane asks. </p><p>“No, I just got in,” Ryan answers. He grimaces. “Not sure I’m gonna chase another hurricane.” </p><p>“Not so into featureless clouds and hours and hours of windy rain?” Ryan hears the click-click of the turn signal of Shane’s truck. He wonders where Shane is driving. </p><p>“Not really,” Ryan admits. “I’ve got a ton of footage though, I’ll drop it onto the server for Katie when I get it processed.” </p><p>“She’ll be pleased,” Shane says. “I’ll let her know.”</p><p>“I heard there’s a conference at OU in October,” Ryan offers, into the lull. </p><p>“Devon’s presenting,” Shane replies, “the data she pulled this summer is really excellent. I think there’s a chance she’ll get asked to speak at one of the NWS conferences in the new year.” </p><p>Ryan can hear the pride in Shane’s voice when he talks about his students. Ryan regularly forgot that Shane was their professor, their grad advisor, the reason they were all pulled together into a trio of cars for miles and miles. </p><p>“You gonna be there?” Ryan asks, because that’s what he really wants to know. He misses Shane. It’s not the same just talking on the phone and getting the odd selfie in amongst the rest of their back and forth. </p><p>“Not sure yet,” Shane says, “might have something else lined up.” </p><p>“Oh,” Ryan says, unable to keep the disappointment out of his voice. </p><p>There it is, then, Shane doesn’t want to see him, doesn’t think about seeing him, doesn’t curse geography and the lack of teleportation devices daily for the hundreds of miles between them. Ryan had hoped, maybe, that Shane would be at the conference, that they could meet up and maybe Ryan could—well, could do something instead of this interminable limbo.  </p><p>Ryan hears the sound of Shane’s truck door closing.</p><p>“Hey, you know what,” Shane says, bright, over the sounds of his shifting of his phone. Ryan imagines he’s wedged it in between his ear and his shoulder so he can unlock his door. “You should come up to my place in November. We do, like, chaser Christmas. Everyone’ll be there.” </p><p>“Uh, yeah, okay,” Ryan says.  “When?” </p><p>“We usually do it, like, Thanksgiving weekend? Sort of a ‘friendsgiving’ kinda thing,” Shane explains, and Ryan hears a thud on the other end of the line like a door being shut or Shane dropping his bag. </p><p>“Let me see when that is this year,” Ryan says, pulling the phone away from his ear and putting Shane on speaker while he pulls up his calendar app.</p><p>“We usually do, like, dinner, on the Saturday? TJ and his wife’ll be here Friday night, not sure when everyone else is showing up, but, like, you’re welcome to come whenever.”</p><p>Ryan’s birthday and Thanksgiving regularly cross streams and it looks like this year is no exception. His birthday <em> is </em> Thanksgiving this year. Ryan purses his lips. It’s not like he was going to fly to California for Thanksgiving anyway. And Shane’s invited him. There’s no chance in hell Ryan’s saying no to that.</p><p>“Let me see if I can get the Friday off,” Ryan says, like he isn’t already planning to bribe his boss with whatever it’ll cost to make that happen. “I’ll let you know.” </p><p>“Okay!” Shane answers. Ryan grins down at his phone. </p><p>“I’m looking forward to seeing you,” he says. </p><p>“Me too,” Shane replies, and Ryan can almost see the way Shane’s eyes crinkle at the corners, because he can hear the smile in Shane’s voice. </p><p> </p><p>-:-</p><p> </p><p>Somehow, having Shane to look forward to seeing in November, makes the months in between fall away and suddenly, Ryan’s pulling out of his apartment complex’s parking lot on a Thursday morning, the sun painting the street in long mid-morning shadows. </p><p>In the intervening weeks, the calls have gotten more frequent, the texts become nearly constant and Ryan’s itchy to see Shane. Before he went to sleep last night, he’d been on the phone with Shane, talking quietly in the dark of his bedroom while Shane did the same. </p><p>“It’ll be really nice to spend some time with you,” Shane had said. </p><p>“I’m really looking forward to it,” Ryan had replied. </p><p>There had been something careful in that exchange, something not quite spoken but not quite silent. Ryan remembers wondering if Shane could hear the way Ryan’s heartbeat had spiked. He checks his blind spot before changing lanes to head to the interstate. The warmth that Shane’s question sent shivering through Ryan remains even this morning. </p><p>The drive passes easily, and Ryan pulls into Shane’s driveway just as the sun starts it’s afternoon descent in the sky. Shane’s waiting on the porch, because Ryan texted him from the gas station down the street and all the air rushes out of Ryan when he looks up from pulling the key from his car’s ignition. </p><p>Shane’s coming down the steps, those long legs carrying him across the driveway and a grin running away with his mouth. Ryan’s out of the car before he can get there. </p><p>“Hey you made it!” Shane says, and Ryan grins. </p><p>“Yeah, man.” </p><p>They stand, sort of at loose ends, for a moment until Ryan remembers his luggage. “I’ve got stuff—” he says, and Shane lurches forward a step. “It’s in the trunk, lemme just—” </p><p>They get everything out of Ryan’s truck and Ryan follows Shane up the walk towards the house and then inside. </p><p>Shane’s house feels the way Ryan thinks it should. It’s open-plan, big windows out the backside looking out over his yard and then a soccer field past the chain-link fence. </p><p>“I’ve got you down in my office,” Shane is saying as he carries one of Ryan’s bags through the house, “Teej and his wife usually stay in my guest room, and then the kids fight over the couches.” </p><p>Ryan follows Shane down a flight of stairs and into the basement, and they drop his things on a pulled out sofa bed in Shane’s office. Ryan takes a moment to look around before he follows Shane back upstairs. The multiple monitors set up on the desk, the old weather maps on the table in the other corner, corners curling up, the pages of marking stacked on the desk beside the computer. It’s all exactly how Ryan would imagine someone who teaches Shane’s class load’s office would look. </p><p>The art on the walls catches his eyes though, and Ryan is brought up short by the framed print centered over the couch.   </p><p>It’s one of his. </p><p>Shane has one of Ryan’s photos, printed, matted, and framed, on the wall of his office. Albeit, it’s behind where he’s normally looking, if Shane spends most of his time at his desk, but still. It’s one of Ryan’s favourites from the previous season; the white condensation funnel churning across the field in Kansas. </p><p>Warmth turns over in Ryan’s stomach. Truthfully, the print sales have been so good this year, that he hasn’t been able to pay as much attention to who is buying them - who knew that hooking up with a professional chase crew would get your photography the exposure you’ve been looking for, forever - and he’s so tickled pink to know that Shane owns some of his photography and likes it enough to hang in his office. </p><p>Ryan floats upstairs, finding Shane in the kitchen, flour on his hands and a mis-shapen lump of pastry on the counter in front of him. </p><p>“Have you ever made an apple pie?” Shane asks, turning at the sound of Ryan stepping onto the tiled floor. </p><p>“Do you need a hand?” Ryan asks, laughing. </p><p>“God, yes,” Shane says. </p><p> </p><p>-:-</p><p> </p><p>Friendsgiving is, as usual, a hit. It never seems to matter that dinner’s a little delayed, or that some parts of it arrive out of sync with others, because everyone is happy to stand around in the kitchen with various beverages in hand and offer suggestions and helping (or hindering) hands until Shane’s able to get the bird out and all the sides come together in that magical way that they do.</p><p>Shane looks down his table, the warmth of many glasses of red wine glowing in his belly and the final crumbs of apple pie on his plate. Ryan gave up halfway through his piece of pie and is leaning back in his chair, hands on his belly, rubbing up and down as he sighs. TJ and his wife are sharing a piece of pie between them, but it seems that Kate is getting more of it. The other three grad students have already decamped from the table to find Shane’s collection of 80s action flicks. </p><p>Everyone goes home tomorrow. Shane already misses them. The rest of the semester stretches out in front of him all of a sudden, and the reality of his empty house, which he has never minded up until this moment, hits home.</p><p>He looks over at Ryan, and finds him looking back, dark eyes muddled and cheeks flushed by Ryan’s own consumption of a significant portion of the very nice bottle of red that Devon showed up with and drank none of. Shane picks up his glass and polishes off the last mouthful before standing, pushing back from the table. </p><p>Before he can say anything, Katie appears at the archway between the dining room and the living room. “You call yourself a meteorologist,” she says, “but you don’t even own Twister.” </p><p>“Actually,” Shane says, “Ryan and I watched it on Friday night, it’s up here.”</p><p>For a half a second, Shane’s sure someone is going to make some remark, but no one does and Katie finds the DVD case on Shane’s coffee table with a triumphant noise. </p><p>“Twister in fifteen,” she says, and heads back downstairs with the movie case. </p><p>Shane’s seen the movie half a million times, but he dutifully troops down with the rest of the crew to watch it one more time. </p><p>Before long, no one is actually watching the movie, while it plays quietly in the background, because Ryan’s laptop was also down here by the TV and now everyone is crowded around to look at the rest of the photographs he took while chasing with them that summer. And then it comes out that Ryan hasn’t actually seen the documentary that TJ and Mark shot, so they put that on instead of watching the end of Twister. </p><p>After the documentary, Shane excuses himself to go back to the kitchen to start in on returning it to it’s usual mostly organized state. He’s up to his elbows in dishwater when he hears the patio door sliding open. He turns just in time to see Ryan’s shoulders disappearing out onto his deck. </p><p>Shane finishes the current sink of dishes and dries his hands, before leaning across the island to check and see if Ryan’s still outside. He is, and doing something on his phone. Beneath his feet, Shane can still hear the sounds of the wii bowling tournament that is happening in his basement, so he slides his feet into his slippers and heads out onto the deck. </p><p>“Everything okay?” Shane asks, when Ryan turns at his approach. </p><p>“Oh, yeah,“ Ryan says, shrugging, “sorry.”</p><p>“Nothing to be sorry about,” Shane says, “just wanted to make sure my students weren’t badgering you or whatever.”</p><p>“No, nothing like that,” Ryan says, “just needed a minute to myself.” </p><p>Shane nods. “I can leave you to it,” he offers.</p><p>“You’re fine.” Ryan shifts, and presses his hands, palm-down, against the railing of the deck. The air outside has the brisk chill of the late fall. It’s not really warm enough to be out here without an extra layer, but Ryan doesn’t look cold. The soft grey shirt he’s wearing pulls nicely over Ryan’s shoulders. Shane tries not to notice.</p><p>“You’re sure?” </p><p>“Yeah, Shane, just—you know, sometimes, you just need a minute.” </p><p>Shane nods. </p><p>Silence steps between them, and Shane lets it build, tilting his head back to look up at the stars peeking out between the scudding clouds. Ryan’s close enough that Shane can feel the heat of him, but not close enough to touch. He’s looking out over the empty field behind Shane’s house, eyes fixed on some invisible thing in the middle distance. </p><p>After a moment, Ryan bumps their shoulders together. “I didn’t realise you’d bought one of my prints,” he says. “I coulda gotten you the friends and family discount.”</p><p>Shane reaches up with one hand to rub at the back of his neck. “Yeah, I, uh—that was a really good day,” he says, “I wanted a souvenir.” He’d forgotten, honestly, about the print in the office. Hadn’t even considered it when he’d decided Ryan could sleep in there while planning for the weekend. That had been such a good day, Shane remembers. A perfect day. His April 25th. </p><p>Standing out here, on his deck, Shane looks over at Ryan. He’s soft in the half-dark, the angles of his face touched by the light spilling out of Shane’s kitchen window. Shane’s stomach swoops, and he grips the railing, hoping it’ll hold him steady against the sudden headrush. That day - Ryan staring at the tornado, camera entirely forgotten, face undone by awe - Shane had wanted to burn that into his memory. </p><p>When he’d seen the print on Ryan’s website, he’d been ordering a copy before he even realised he had. He’d debated over where to hang it, talked himself into and out of putting it elsewhere in the house, and decided on the office, because aside from his bedroom, it is the room of the house he spends the most time in. Since he’s hung it, he catches himself looking at it, when he needs a break from looking over papers and marking exams. </p><p>Every time he looks at it, he remembers Ryan’s laugh, the teasing flash of his smile, and the way Shane’s whole body had come alight under the touch of Ryan’s hand, clapping him on the back in passing. Does Ryan remember that day the way that Shane does?</p><p>“It was such a good day,” Ryan affirms, “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to have an entire season of days just like that.” His eyes are bright, and <em> Shane </em>would be lying if he said he didn’t want to see them like that every day, for the rest of however long Ryan would let him.</p><p>Shane takes a breath. “Chase with us next year,” he says, without consulting the team or his grant budget or anything aside from the golden thrumming thing blooming behind his ribs. He wants Ryan to chase with him, wants to see Ryan, wide-eyed and awed, in the face of Mother Nature’s fury, wants to share hotel room after hotel room with him, and bicker over snacks and—</p><p>“Really?” Ryan asks. There’s a sudden shyness in his voice. </p><p>“Yeah,” Shane says, and thinks, to hell with the grant committee and the budget and everything else. He will pay Ryan’s stipend himself if he has to. Imagining Ryan chasing by himself again is terrible, imagining Ryan chasing with some other team is even more terrible, and Shane refuses to let anyone else find Ryan the kind of storms that make his eyes go round and his mouth drop open in silent admiration.</p><p>“Okay,” Ryan says, and turns to look at Shane full on. Ryan’s smile brightens the air around them, and Shane finds himself unable to keep himself from grinning back. He’s sure they look like a pair of loons, smiling at each other in the semi-dark of Shane’s backyard, but Shane cannot find it in himself to care.</p><p> </p><p>-:-</p><p> </p><p>Ryan confirms his travel details with Shane over text on a muggy night in early March. It’s still cold enough in OKC that he’ll need a heavier coat and probably a beanie, but it’s been hot enough for shorts in Texas for at least the last couple of weeks. </p><p>He’s giddy, bouncing on the toes of his shoes as he texts Shane from the corner of his kitchen, coffee machine burbling on the counter behind him. He’s been looking at the 14 day forecasts for weeks, waiting for the pattern shift, and it’s finally coming. Something about the way the models look this week, something on the Euro, a blip over Kansas, feels like all the pieces falling into place. </p><p> </p><p>-:-</p><p> </p><p>Ryan arrives at Shane’s on a Thursday near the end of March, and races from his car to the door because the sky has opened up and chilly rain is pouring down. Ryan knocks, because he’s the sort of person who does that, and waits for Shane, huddling on the tiny porch, under the overhang of the eaves, trying to stay as dry as possible. </p><p>The sky above the house is slate grey and flat, nimbostratus clouds heavy with the rain that is coming down in a pattering rush. Ryan shifts, stamping his feet and knocks again. Shane’s home, Ryan knows, because he can see all the lights on in the house. He sees Shane, in the flesh, for the first time since before Christmas, through the wavy glass of the sidelight next to Shane’s front door. </p><p>Then the door is opening, and there he is, and Ryan’s caught, for a moment, in the way that the hall light shines through Shane’s hair. He attributes it to the fact that he can see his breath when he exhales to say hello and forces himself to look at something other than the slope of Shane’s shoulders. </p><p>“We’ll go up to the campus tomorrow, make a game plan,” Shane says, as he leads Ryan back into his house. Ryan toes his shoes off at the door and follows Shane in. Outside, the rain keeps falling. </p><p>Over delivery pizza and cheap beers Shane had in his fridge, they catch up. It’s not like they haven’t talked in the intervening six months, since Thanksgiving, but it’s not the same to tell your stories to a screen or to not see the way Shane’s brows draw down as Ryan relates the miserable tale of discovering his own footage being used online, without his permission. </p><p>“Did you watermark your video?” Shane asks. </p><p>“Yeah,” Ryan says, “they cropped it out.” </p><p>“Aw, fuckers,” Shane says, which is the same thing he’d said when Ryan had first told him over text, just before Christmas, but it has more weight now that Ryan can watch the way Shane’s mouth shapes the harsh consonants of the oath. </p><p>Ryan drags his eyes away from Shane’s mouth and down to the label of his beer. “It worked out in the end, once I called the lawyer.” </p><p>Shane bumps their shoulders together. “Nice,” he says, and takes a swig from his bottle. </p><p>They’re sitting on Shane’s couch. There’s some movie on TV but neither of them have been paying attention for the better part of the last hour. Upstairs, a clock chimes the hour and Shane leans forward to set his empty bottle on the table. </p><p>“That’s my cue,” he says, and affects a yawn. </p><p>“What time do you want to be on the road tomorrow?” Ryan asks, instead of teasing Shane about how he likes to go to bed at a reasonable hour, when he can.</p><p>Shane pushes himself to standing before answering, reaching his hands over his head as he does. Ryan hears the way his spine resettles before Shane lets go of the stretch with a long sigh. “What about breakfast first?” he asks. </p><p>Ryan nods. “Sure, yeah, you know I’m always game for breakfast.” </p><p>“Be ready for before eight?” </p><p>“Alright,” Ryan says, and looks down at his watch. </p><p>“Goodnight, then,” Shane says. “You know where everything is,” he adds.</p><p>“‘Night,” Ryan replies. </p><p>Ryan listens to Shane climbing the stairs to the main floor, listens to him moving around the kitchen, turning off lights, and then the faint sounds of him going all the way up the stairs to his bedroom. The house goes quiet, and Ryan sighs, and reaches out for his phone before he gives into sinking back into the couch.</p><p>He pulls up the radar map for the local area, and watches as the green and yellow bands of rain march across the screen. Tomorrow, the season starts, and Ryan feels like he remembers feeling on Christmas Eve, anticipation riding up and down his spine, wondering what he’ll find under the tree, except now it’s wondering what he’ll find under the next gust front, or whether he’ll finally catch the glow of a sunset off the spectacular mammatus display, or if he’ll get the perfect shot that he’s always chasing. He lifts his bottle to his mouth, and swallows down the last of the beer, letting the bitterness linger on the back of his tongue. </p><p>The radar loop starts over again, and Ryan watches it’s path one more time. </p><p> </p><p>-:-</p><p> </p><p>They’re in Nebraska. It’s early May, the chase has been on for almost a month now, and Ryan’s memory cards are bursting with footage. He’s riding shotgun with Shane today, following a storm that looks like it’s ready to drop something. The radar is lurid magenta on the screen of Shane’s tablet, and Ryan’s got the map up on his phone, while he talks to his camera, laying out the risk and the danger and what they’re seeing as they hurtle towards the storm. </p><p>A gust of inflow wind rocks the truck when they come to a stop at a dirt crossroads. Shane doesn’t roll through the intersection, and instead shifts the truck to park, unbuckling his seatbelt. Ryan’s grabbing his camera as he follows Shane out, swapping the handicam so it’ll show the footage through the windshield on his stream. </p><p>Outside, the wind whips up bits of grass and dust, and Shane lifts one hand to his eyes to shield them while he takes a long look at the advancing line. Ryan’s chased enough with him now that he can read the tension in Shane’s shoulders. This is going to be a bad day, Ryan thinks, as he watches the scud hanging at the base of the storm. It’s starting to look a little less like scud and a little more like something else. </p><p>Suddenly, there’s the telltale swirl on the ground, and then the funnel starts to drop, and Ryan’s stomach drops with it. The air goes taut around them. Ryan lifts his camera to his eye, framing the shot. It’ll be gorgeous, a wide angle of the fields and the towering mesocyclone, looking like a slowly spinning layer cake.</p><p>The wind whips up around them, inflow pulling the air into the storm, feeding it. Lightning flashes in the turning clouds, and thunder rolls out towards them, low and vibrating. </p><p>“Let’s go,” Shane says, and turns back towards the truck. Ryan follows, slower, walking backwards so he doesn’t lose sight of the funnel. He blinks, thinking it’s a trick on a flash of lightning, but the next flash shows the same thing.</p><p>“Wait,” Ryan says, pointing. “Shane, is that—?”</p><p>Shane turns back around. “What’re you seeing?”</p><p>Lightning flashes under the cloud. “There,” Ryan says, because he’s sure now. There’s two funnels under this storm. They’re not quite close enough yet to see the scope of this, but from their vantage and on this flat ground, it’s easy enough to tell that this is a bad situation. Ryan tries to recall the roadmap in his mind, trying to remember if there are any towns in the area.</p><p>“Oh shit,” Shane swears. “Come on, we gotta call it in.”  </p><p>He lopes back to the truck with Ryan on his heels. Before getting in, Ryan takes one last look at the storm, it’s duelling fingers of destruction throwing up debris. The anvil of certainty sits heavy in Ryan’s stomach. Anxiety crawls along his nerves, fizzing every time fingers of lightning dance along the outer edge of the storm cloud. </p><p>This is the kind of a once in a lifetime storm that will stay with you.</p><p>Shane makes the phone call, and Ryan watches as the warnings get updated. Shane’s voice is tight and controlled on the phone, carefully explaining the location and the severity. Ryan drives, the truck bumping over dirt roads. He keeps one eye on the storm and one eye on the road in front of him. </p><p>“Let it get ahead of us,” Shane says, hanging up his phone, and refreshing the radar image. Ryan pulls the truck off the road, and they watch, as the pair of funnels cross the road in front of them. They run into a copse of trees, a barn, a warehouse, and the debris cloud grows. Ryan can hear Shane’s sharp intake of breath at the rapid-fire power flashes underneath the wider of the two tornadoes. </p><p>Once the storm has crossed in front of them, Ryan takes the next turn that will let them continue to follow it. Shane’s talking to Ryan’s livestream now, passing along his warnings, and adjusting the camera to capture the new view of the storm as they chase it from several miles behind and to its southeast.</p><p>They rumble up to an intersection, and Shane points left. The core is passing over the road, and Ryan’s fingers itch for his camera, but he’s driving. At least the stream is still running, he’ll be able to pull whatever he can off the cloud where it auto-stores.</p><p>“There,” Shane says, “take the next right.” </p><p>Ryan takes the turn, and they follow the paved road, just at the edge of the storm, Shane on the phone with the local news channel the whole time. Shane directs Ryan to head left at the next intersection and they hit the damage path almost immediately. Trees are down, powerlines tangled in heaps and, as Ryan picks their way through the damage, signs that houses and businesses have been caught in the cross-fire. </p><p>The sign saying Welcome to Platt’s Landing is still standing as they crawl past it, but not much else remains. </p><p>It’s a disaster zone.</p><p>Buildings have been pulled entirely off their foundations, swept up into the sucking maw of the vortex and spit back out as shrapnel carried by winds fast enough to embed wood into concrete like toothpicks into bread. Ryan finds a place to pull over, and he and Shane both get out, Shane grabbing Ryan’s phone as he does. </p><p>The only sound outside of the truck is the patter of rain and the occasional rumble of thunder, far away. They’re literally the first people on the scene. Ryan swallows back against the panicky feeling in his stomach, and turns to Shane. </p><p>“Jesus,” Shane says, surveying the damage before them. To their left is a building that is mostly still standing. He takes two steps towards it, and cups his hands around his mouth, yelling into the open storefront. Ryan crosses the street, and does the same. </p><p>A group of people emerge from a gas station further down the block, having taken shelter in the stockroom. They are shaken but unharmed. Sirens wail in the distance as emergency crews begin to arrive. </p><p>Hours later, Ryan’s arms are aching from pulling debris off cellar doors, and his eyes and nose are burning from the scent of gas leaking into the air. He’s thirsty, and exhausted, and he leans against Shane’s truck, watching while Shane talks to a group of deputies, and listens to the sound of chainsaws and the voices of people, calling for relatives and friends. A makeshift triage tent is set up in the gas station parking lot, and the sound of sirens has started to fade into background noise. </p><p>Once the proper rescue crews arrived, he and Shane had swapped to documenting the damage instead of getting in the way trying to help, and Ryan’s phone is dead but full of pictures and footage that they can send to the survey crew tonight, once they get back to the hotel. TJ and Mark and Katie and Devon had arrived around the same time as the fire crews. Shane had sent them on to rest, telling them that he and Ryan would be along as soon as they could.</p><p>“You okay?” Shane asks, dropping his hand onto Ryan’s shoulder. </p><p>“Thirsty,” Ryan says, coughing into his sleeve.</p><p>Shane produces a bottle of water from his back pocket, and Ryan cracks it open, sucking back half of it in a long swallow. The rest of it, he sips as Shane gets them turned around, and the truck on the road out of the wreckage of the small town. </p><p>“Never easy to see that,” Shane offers, into the silence between them. </p><p>“No,” Ryan agrees, looking out the window. </p><p>“If you need to talk,” Shane suggests, leaving the rest of the sentence unsaid.</p><p>Ryan doesn’t think he needs to talk, just that he needs to process. He’s seen things today. Things he could have gone his whole life without seeing. It’s one thing to know, intellectually, that wood turns into spears inside a tornado, it’s another thing to see splinters stabbed through skin, to shift debris off someone and find them pinned, or to realise that you might have been too late. </p><p>Every time Ryan closes his eyes on the long, slow drive back to the hotel where they’ve set up for the next few days, it’s a highlight reel of the cost of his hobby. He does his best to focus on the scenery instead, and silence fills the truck, while Shane gives him what space he can to process. Ryan figures Shane also needs to process, wonders how many times Shane has driven into the aftermath and jumped out, ready to help, wonders what things Shane might’ve seen in chases that ended worse than this.</p><p>Hunger gnaws in Ryan’s belly, but he doesn’t think he can eat, keeps tasting the rotten egg scent of leaking natural gas in the back of his throat. He swallows, and goes for another sip of water, only to find that the bottle is empty. He crunches it in his hands, the sound of crinkling plastic loud in the cab of the truck.</p><p> </p><p>-:-</p><p> </p><p>Shane’s just settling into his bed, in his own room, no less, because by some miracle they have a little more room in the budget this year, when he hears the knock on the door. It’s late, Shane knows, because the TV has swapped over from local cable news to infomercials, but he swings his legs out of bed and goes to the door anyway. When he looks out the peephole, it’s Ryan, looking heartsore and exhausted. </p><p>Shane opens the door and stands aside to invite Ryan in. Ryan sweeps past Shane, and goes immediately to the window, looking out over the parking lot. Shane lets the door close and turns, waiting for Ryan. He can see that he’s showered, Ryan’s hair curling damply at the back of his neck. Ryan’s dressed for bed, Shane thinks, in a soft t-shirt and low-slung sweats, but there’s still rigid tension in his shoulders and down the line of his spine.</p><p>Shane knows this feeling, he’s felt it so many times himself. It doesn’t get easier, really, to see the stark results of their fleeting bit of adrenaline. Even though they are doing serious science, and Shane publishes his research and helps his students publish theirs, no one goes into severe weather prediction and research without being at least a little bit into the rush and the awe. </p><p>Today had been bad. </p><p>The tornado through Platt’s Landing looks like it’ll be rated a high end EF4, and Shane might push the surveyors to tip it into EF5 territory, once he’s able to get a little more distance from the immediate disaster of it. He’s had a cursory glance through Ryan’s photos, and through his own, but they’ll go through them more thoroughly on the next down day and forward their observations to the survey team, helping to better describe the breadth and scale of the damage they saw today. </p><p>When Ryan finally turns around, there’s something raw in his face.</p><p>Shane answers the question he knows Ryan is going to ask. “No,” he says, “it’s not any easier no matter how many times you’ve seen it.”</p><p>Ryan nods, and swallows. The air conditioner unit under the window kicks on with a whine. </p><p>“It’s okay if it was a lot,” Shane says, taking a step towards Ryan. Ryan doesn’t move away, just stands there. Shane changes tack, and sits down on the end of  his bed. “Why don’t we watch something, take your mind off it?” </p><p>“I’d like that,” Ryan says, but he doesn’t move. </p><p>Shane leans back and snags the remote from where he’s left it on the bedside table, pulling up the channel guide and scrolling through to see if there’s anything on. He finds a showing of Jurassic Park that is not quite at the halfway mark, and pushes himself back up the bed until he can rest against the headboard. Ryan doesn’t join him until Shane pats the bed beside himself, and then Ryan’s moving, climbing up jerkily onto the bed beside Shane and settling on his back, head pillowed on his hands.</p><p>“I’ve probably seen this movie like, forty times,” Shane says, when it goes to a commercial break. </p><p>“Oh yeah?” Ryan asks, tipping his head towards Shane. Shane looks down at him briefly before turning his attention back to the screen. Ryan’s softened a bit now, lying next to Shane in the bed that Shane has been sleeping in at this hotel, some of the tension gone out of him and some of the haunted thing in his eyes dissipating as they watch the movie. </p><p>“Yup. It’s been a favourite since I was a kid.” </p><p>“Me too,” Ryan says, and then he yawns, large enough that Shane can hear his jaw crack. He pushes himself up to sitting, rubbing at his eyes under his glasses. “I should go to bed,” he says, but Shane surprises himself and puts a hand on Ryan’s forearm. </p><p>“You can stay,” Shane says, then; “If you want, I mean, no pressure, or anything. Just—” he cuts himself off. He looks into Ryan’s face, to find Ryan looking back. </p><p>“Sure,” Ryan says “I’ll stay.” He settles back against the headboard, shifting closer to Shane, close enough that their shoulders brush. </p><p>Shane falls asleep before the movie is over. </p><p> </p><p>-:-</p><p> </p><p>When Shane wakes up, the room around them is pitch dark, and he’s pressed up against Ryan, from chest to calves, molded along the curve of Ryan’s back. Shane’s arm is loose around Ryan’s waist, his hand spread across Ryan’s stomach, and Ryan is breathing deep and slow and even. The room is quiet. Shane thinks about disentangling himself, but he decides instead to take the easy route and tighten his grip on Ryan and not worry about it. </p><p>He’ll figure this out in the morning. </p><p>It’s not until just before he’s lost to the abyss of sleep, that he realises he is under the blankets and that someone (Ryan, he assumes) has taken off his glasses. Shane lets that thought wash over him, and does not let it land anywhere in particular, and falls back asleep.</p><p> </p><p>-:-</p><p> </p><p>In the morning, Shane reaches across the mattress and finds no one there with him. He blinks awake, and rolls over onto his back. He gives himself half a moment to wallow in the desire to have woken up with Ryan next to him, and then heaves himself out of bed and into the shower. It’s going to probably be another long day. </p><p>When Shane wanders down to the lobby for breakfast, he finds Ryan there, behind his laptop, hair still sleep-mussed. He looks relaxed, no lingering tension in his shoulders. Shane won’t push him to chase today, though, they can find something else to look at if Ryan’s not feeling up to getting up close and personal with the weather again.</p><p>“Morning sleepy-head,” Ryan says and pushes a plate of pastries across the table towards Shane, who has managed to doctor the liquid purporting itself to be coffee enough to make it so he can drink it. Shane selects the least offensive looking pastry, and enjoys the burst of sugary sweet fruit filling on the first bite. </p><p>“Busy day again today,” Ryan says, turning his laptop screen so Shane can see.</p><p>Ryan’s got a selection of soundings up across his screen. Shane’s eyes zero in. “Not as much shear today,” he says, pointing at the graph. Even with low shear, there’s still enough instability in the atmosphere to start something, and Shane’s expecting fairly linear storms today, the kind that crawl with lightning and sweep in and out and in a rush of wind. </p><p>“Atmosphere’s still pretty primed,” Ryan argues, drawing up the early NAM model run. He hits play and they watch the forecast march across the screen. </p><p>“What’s the Euro say?” Shane asks, taking a sip of his coffee. He grimaces. The corner of Ryan’s mouth twitches up, but he’s pulling up the latest Euro run and doesn’t say anything about the coffee. </p><p>“Here,” Ryan says, and sets the two models to run side-by-side. </p><p>They watch them loop a couple of times together before TJ and Mark join them, and then Katie, with hair still wet from her shower, and Devon arrive on their heels. As they’re all saying good morning, everyone’s phones go off. Ryan’s rattles on the table and Shane watches the notification flash across the screen. </p><p>“Time to go?” Ryan asks. He closes his laptop lid with a decisive snap.</p><p>“We don’t—” Shane stops himself from offering the out. If Ryan didn’t want to go, he wouldn’t already be on his feet and looking out the lobby windows towards the parking lot and the big, empty sky, with a greedy hunger Shane recognizes in himself. </p><p> </p><p>-:-</p><p> </p><p>Ryan leans out of the window of Shane’s truck. “So,” he’s saying into his phone, watching the line of storms come in from the southwest. “Today’s a low shear, bubbly atmosphere today. We’re probably going to see a lot of quick spin-ups that don’t last very long. Lucky for us, Shane here’s found us a solid little squall to stand in front of.” Ryan flashes a grin in Shane’s direction, but Shane doesn’t turn to look at him, eyes focused on the road in front of them. </p><p>Thunder rumbles in the distance and the clouds on the horizon flicker with lightning. The rain at the base of the storm blurs the landscape. There’s no tell-tale white or green hue that says there’s hail, even on his own, Ryan wouldn’t feel at all worried about heading into the heart of it. The radar is all straight lines and no rotation, just a gentle bowing curve on the leading edge. </p><p>They crest a hill and Ryan can feel the smile growing on his face. This is the prettiest storm they’ve chased in ages. The clear line of the shelf, the gust front just beneath it, and the taste of rain on the wind. He whoops and leans back into the truck, popping his phone into the rig on the windshield frame, and digs for his camera in his bag between him and Shane. </p><p>“Beauty storm, baby!” Ryan shouts, as Shane takes them off the main road and onto a smaller side road, stopping the truck on a rise, to give Ryan the best vantage point. Shane parks, and they get out. Ryan passes Shane his phone, and Shane holds it steady, streaming Ryan shooting for his thousands of followers, all the while talking through the cloud formations and what they’re seeing and hearing. </p><p>The storm is moving fast, sweeping towards them in a rush of wind, canola flowers swaying in the gusts. A cloud to ground lightning strike hits the field out in front of them, and it startles them both into surprised laughter, Shane jostling Ryan’s phone. The thunder arrives hard on it’s heels, a wicked cracking sound that Shane swears he can feel through the earth beneath his feet. There’s another one, off to their left, and then they’re in it. </p><p>The rain is a torrent. It’s bitterly cold, and wind-blown. Shane stops the stream and pockets Ryan’s phone, turning his face up to the sky to catch the drops on his skin. It feels so good to stand in the midst of the storm, clouds boiling overhead and the wind howling past his ears.</p><p>“You’re gonna end up with pneumonia,” Ryan says, from Shane’s left. </p><p>“Am not,” Shane argues back, but he does look over and down at Ryan looking up at him. The rain pounds around them, and Ryan’s shirt is soaked through, hair plastered to his forehead, water catching on his eyelashes. </p><p>Something about being in the middle of a downpour in rural Nebraska must do it for Shane, because the way Ryan’s looking up at him makes the world narrow to the bow of Ryan’s lips. Ryan’s tongue darts out, wetting his mouth, Shane follows it with laser focus, suddenly determined that he is going to push his luck today. </p><p>Lightning flares overhead, and Ryan flinches under the sound of the thunder. Shane’s hand comes up to steady him around the waist, and this time, when Ryan jolts, Shane’s close enough to watch the way his eyes widen slightly. </p><p>“Ry—” Shane says, but he hasn’t time for anything else because Ryan is pushing himself up onto his toes, and rocking into Shane, and then there’s just the cool press of his lips, and the hot swipe of his tongue.  </p><p>The storm continues overhead, but a tornado could literally be on top of them and Shane wouldn’t notice. He’s wrapped entirely up in the wet heat of Ryan’s mouth and moulding his hands to the strength of Ryan’s shoulders, and feeling the rainwater drip off of Ryan’s hair. They kiss and kiss, standing in the centre of a dirt road turning into mud around them, Ryan’s plastic-covered camera hanging from one hand, the other fisted in the back of Shane’s shirt. </p><p>When Ryan pulls away, dropping back down onto flat feet, and looking up at Shane, he’s breathing hard, and there’s a flush riding high on his cheekbones. Shane draws the hand he had threaded through Ryan’s hair forward to cup Ryan’s jaw, thumb brushing at Ryan’s bottom lip. </p><p>Ryan shivers. </p><p>“You cold?” Shane asks, voice a rasp. He’s warm all the way through, down to his toes, he feels like the raindrops still hitting his skin should be steaming away as soon as they touch him. Ryan shakes his head. </p><p>They’re close enough still, that Shane can feel the huff of Ryan’s breath on his lips. “Not cold,” Ryan says, smoothing his hand down Shane’s back. The storm has moved off, thunder rumbling ever more distantly. A gust of wind swirls around them, chilly. Shane’s skin breaks into goosebumps. </p><p>“You might not be cold,” Shane says, “but this is where I actually do end up with pneumonia.” He steps back from Ryan, missing the solid heat of him immediately. </p><p>“Let’s get you into a hot shower then,” Ryan suggests. </p><p> </p><p>-:-</p><p> </p><p>Under the hot spray, Ryan crowds Shane back against the tiles, mouth hot and heavy and hands everywhere. Shane can do nothing but hold on, feeling very much like a man standing in the face of gale force winds, buffeted by the rising tide of desire in his blood and the taste of Ryan on his mouth. </p><p>“Shane,” Ryan is saying, over and over, every time he lifts his mouth from Shane’s skin, which is warming up nicely in the shower. Ryan’s hand slides between them, fingers curling around Shane’s cock and Shane’s head tips back, thunking against the tiles, as Ryan pulls a sound out of him that he’s never heard himself make before. </p><p>“Jesus,” Shane hisses, sucking a breath in through his teeth. He looks down only to find Ryan looking up, grin extremely smug. Shane wants to kiss it off his face, and so he does, walking Ryan back, out of the shower spray, and pushing him up against the other wall of the shower. Ryan gasps, his eyes closing as Shane takes him in hand.</p><p>They press together, Shane’s cock sliding against his own hand where it’s wrapped around Ryan. It’s going to be over quick, Shane thinks, as he twists his grip, flicking his thumb over the tip, and then sliding back down. Ryan’s body is taut, toes curling against the tile. Shane wants to get inside Ryan, wants to have him shaking and whining in his bed, wants to see if the flush on the nape of Ryan’s neck travels down his back as Shane fucks him, wants to come apart on Ryan’s fingers. </p><p>The feeling spirals around Shane’s spine, and he watches Ryan, knowing in that instinctive way that Ryan’s close, feeling it in the tremble of Ryan’s thighs against his.</p><p>“C’mon, baby,” Shane says, mouthing at Ryan’s ear. “Let me see.”</p><p>Ryan groans, one hand clutching at Shane’s hip, the other pressed flat against the shower wall, and comes, eyes squeezed shut. Shane watches the whole thing; admiring the flex and release of Ryan’s whole body, wanting to feel what it would be like to bring Ryan off again, but while buried inside him, caught in the tight clutch of Ryan’s body. </p><p>Shane leans down, catching Ryan’s mouth with his own. Ryan’s breath hitches, as Shane’s hand closes once more around his softening cock, sliding easy with the sudsy water left over from Ryan’s attempt at pretending this was a shower they were going to get clean in. Ryan whines into Shane’s mouth, hips shifting forward. </p><p>“Take me to bed,” Ryan husks, when they break for air, the words almost lost under the sound of the showerhead and the whir of the exhaust fan and Shane’s own heartbeat thundering in his ears. </p><p>They forget about towels, and Ryan tumbles Shane, still dripping from the shower, down onto the nearest bed. Shane goes without a fight, gathering Ryan in, hands sliding along his damp skin, until they can purchase around his hips and haul Ryan up, and then over, so he’s on his back under Shane. Ryan’s eyes are wide, blown dark and lovely. </p><p>Shane runs a careful finger along the curve of Ryan’s jaw. </p><p>“Lovely,” he says, just to watch the way Ryan’s gaze slides away and the flush rises on the apples of his cheeks. Shane leans down to kiss him again, just to feel his mouth, to learn the shape of it, slow and unhurried. Ryan arches to meet him, and bites at Shane’s lips when they slide together. </p><p>Shane ducks his head to kiss down the side of Ryan’s throat, hands sliding up Ryan’s ribs, and then down, making Ryan shiver, before Shane slides down himself, pausing briefly to touch tongue to Ryan’s nipples, because it seems like the thing to do. </p><p>The effect is brilliant. Ryan jolts like he’s been shocked, and Shane feels like he’s caught lightning between his fingers. He does it again, and Ryan rewards him with a shuddery hiss of breath, and an airy moan. The sound of it zings all the way down Shane’s spine.</p><p>Ryan hauls Shane back up to kiss again. When they break apart, Ryan’s eyes open slowly, dark and lovely in the muted light of the bedside lamp. Hotel sheets are always so white, and Shane wants to look at the contrast of Ryan’s skin against them forever. </p><p>Instead, he swoops in to kiss Ryan again, reveling in the hot slide of Ryan’s tongue and swallowing the aching sound Ryan makes when Shane curls a gentle hand around him. Ryan’s still not quite there again, but Shane figures he can get him there, if he just gives Ryan a bit of a hand. </p><p>Shane breaks the kiss, and slides down Ryan’s body, stopping to tweak a nipple, and then stopping again to mouth around the length of Ryan’s cock. Ryan hisses in a startled breath, hand flexing against the sheets, and Shane looks up at him through his lashes to find Ryan looking back. </p><p>“Oh, Jesus,” Ryan says, letting his head drop back onto the pillows. Shane hums in response, and Ryan’s heels slide against the sheets, his knees knocking into Shane’s sides. “Shit,” Ryan breathes. </p><p>Shane lets him go, and pushes himself up. “I’ve got stuff,” he says, and Ryan flaps a hand at him. Shane doesn’t turn away immediately, taking a long look at Ryan, splayed out on his back, one hand over his face, and the other curled against his chest. </p><p>Ryan doesn’t flush as easily as Shane, but there’s a heat in Ryan’s skin that Shane can see, and he knows if he kissed along the ridge of Ryan’s collarbones, he’d be able to taste it. His mouth waters, wanting nothing more than to throw himself back down, cage Ryan in and map all the dips and valleys of his body, until Ryan is whining and desperate.</p><p>Shane steels himself and turns away from the enticing tableau in front of him.</p><p>The lube is in the front pocket of Shane’s bag, stashed there with secret hopes, and not with any plans. He gathers the bottle into his hands, rolling it between his palms, warming the small container with his body heat, and looks back over at the bed, where Ryan is, spread out and lovely. Ryan shifts, lifting his head, and Shane steps back to the bed. </p><p>“Thought you might’ve got lost,” Ryan says, even as Shane runs one hand up the centre of Ryan’s body, fingers splayed across his chest.</p><p>“Pretty sure I know the way,” Shane retorts, kneeling between Ryan’s thighs. He pushes Ryan’s legs further apart, drawing the fingers of one hand down the crease of Ryan’s thigh. The other caresses Ryan’s hip, thumb smoothing along the skin. </p><p>“You sure you don’t—<em> ah </em>—need a map?” Ryan ‘s voice hitches, when the pad of one of Shane’s fingers rubs up against his hole. </p><p>Shane huffs a laugh while coating his fingers in lube. “Big talk for the guy about to have his brains fucked out.” </p><p>“I can only dream,” Ryan says, voice gone tight as Shane slides one finger in, slow and steady. </p><p>“Easy,” Shane soothes. </p><p>“I’m fine,” Ryan says, lifting his head so he can look at Shane, brows drawn down. “Only if you could get on with it.” </p><p>“In a hurry?” Shane asks, voice mild. </p><p>Ryan hisses when Shane pulls out his finger, and then groans when two fingers replace it. He arches, planting his heels on the bed, calves brushing up against Shane’s legs where he is kneeling. Shane keeps his hand steady, moving in and out, curling up to find the place that makes Ryan’s thighs tremble, until Ryan’s muttering under his breath, one foot sliding against the sheet. </p><p>“Another, Shane, fuck, I can take it,” Ryan pleads. His hands are scrabbling against the sheets, fingers reaching for Shane and falling away when they can’t quite catch any part of Shane to hold on to.</p><p>Shane takes him in. Ryan’s panting, his cock starting to stir again, he’s biting his lip. He’s gorgeous, the want stamped along every line of his body, hips shifting against Shane’s hand, and stuttering when Shane pulls out and goes back in with three fingers. </p><p>“Fuck. Jesus,” Ryan swears, lifting his hands to clutch at his own hair. </p><p>“Not quite yet,” Shane says, just to be a smart-ass. Ryan glares at him, but the effect is ruined by the way his mouth drops open when Shane curls his fingers just right. Ryan groans, punched out and beautiful, and Shane feels the sound go right through him. </p><p>“Ry—” Shane starts, wanting to ask but fumbling for the words. </p><p>“Yeah, Shane. Yeah. Do it,” Ryan pants, “c’mon please. Fucking—fuck me.” </p><p>Shane grits his teeth. Ryan’s voice is pitched low to entice, not that Shane needs any enticing. He looks down at where his hand is disappearing into Ryan, and then sweeps his gaze up the line of Ryan’s body. </p><p>“You ready, baby?” Shane husks, pulling his fingers out. </p><p>Ryan makes a needy sound that Shane feels in the base of his dick. Shane waits, looking down at the body on offer, wondering how he got here from where he was this time last year. That he’s here, in this place, with Ryan, right now, is nothing short of serendipity. Ryan was a bolt from the blue, a chance in a hundred million, the EF5 barreling down on Shane while Shane wasn’t looking and catching him up and instead of throwing him hundreds of miles into a field, Ryan had hooked him around the middle and held on. </p><p>In this room though, it’s like the stillness before the storm. The breath of a moment before everything changes, and Shane knows that as soon as he has Ryan like this, he’ll be ruining himself for anyone, anything else. Never mind being close to a tornado, never mind feeling the sandpaper grit of debris in your teeth; this, staring down at Ryan, eager and wanting and looking up at Shane like Shane might hold the whole world in his hands, that is the real high that every adrenaline junkie storm chaser thinks they’re chasing. </p><p>It’s cliche as fuck to have this realisation just before he plans to make Ryan come for a second time, this time on his own dick, but Shane’s positively gone for him. Absolutely head over heels for this idiot he pulled out of the path of a tornado a year ago and whose thighs are splayed over Shane’s hips. Shane’s walls have been pushed down and the foundations of himself swept clean of any pretense, leaving only the bare concrete of the love he has been shoring up for this man in the storm cellars of his heart.</p><p>He’s lost in contemplation for long enough that Ryan pushes up onto his elbows. </p><p>“You waiting for an engraved invitation or something?” Ryan asks. </p><p>“No, just—” Shane stops himself, not wanting to let the feeling crowding up the back of his throat out quite yet. He reaches out, drawing his finger down the length of Ryan’s hardening dick. “You’re gonna come again,” Shane says, like he’s sure of it.</p><p>“Maybe so,” Ryan agrees. “If you’d get to the main event sometime this century.”  </p><p>“Pushy,” Shane chides, but he circles Ryan’s cock with his hand, not quite tight enough to do anything, but tight enough that Ryan’ll know it’s on purpose.</p><p>“You like it, big guy,” Ryan says, shifting his hips to get at what friction he can from Shane’s hand.</p><p>“How unfortunate for me,” Shane replies, and then he’s pulling Ryan in closer, lining up with one hand on his own dick, and pushing in slow and steady. It’s perfect, and Shane’s suddenly on the knife’s edge, hissing in a breath and trying to remember the formula for calculating coriolis drift instead of coming immediately like some high school boy getting his dick wet for the first time.</p><p>Ryan groans, loud and long, before gulping in a breath. Shane waits him out, hands on Ryan’s hips, fingers holding them both steady. “Keep going,” Ryan admonishes, licking his lips and swallowing. Shane watches his Adam’s apple bob. </p><p>“I just—need a fuckin’ second, okay?” Shane says, and Ryan’s face goes smug. Shane pushes in further and the expression falls clean off Ryan’s face. He takes his time, working over Ryan’s cock as he does, until Ryan’s hands are back in his own hair, and what feels like every tendon in his body is tight and straining. </p><p>Shane’s barely holding on himself.</p><p>He lets go of Ryan’s hips, grips the backs of Ryan’s knees and finishes the long slide. Ryan arches against him, tipping his head back and baring his throat. </p><p>“God, you feel—Jesus, Ryan,” Shane’s babbling, he can’t help it. Ryan’s right there with him, every one of Shane’s muttered endearments earning him another moan and Ryan’s steady patter of affirmations as Shane snaps his hips, driving Ryan up the bed.</p><p>“Fuckin’—” Ryan swears, when Shane tightens his grip on Ryan’s dick reflexively in time with the tightening of his whole self. Ryan’s hips jump, and Shane jerks him, hand sliding easily along Ryan’s leaking dick.</p><p>“<em>Christ</em>,” Shane breathes. </p><p>There’s no time for anything else. Shane shakes apart, his mind going to buzzing static and the coil of heat at the base of his spine snapping with enough force that he curls over Ryan, holding himself up with one shaking arm. When Ryan comes, shortly after, it’s with a hiss, his body going taut and dick pulsing weakly in Shane’s grip. </p><p>Shane holds himself up as long as he can, but soon he’s sinking down, lured by the knowledge that Ryan’s chest is a good place to rest his head. He breathes out, a long exhale of pent up everything. Ryan’s hand comes up to card through Shane’s hair, and Shane could stay there forever, and never move. </p><p>“We’ll need another shower,” Ryan says, into the stillness. Shane’s skin prickles all along his back when the air conditioner unit kicks on, and he shivers. </p><p>“Do we really, though?” Shane asks, muffled into the swell of Ryan’s pec. </p><p>“Ugh, yeah, dude,” Ryan says, and then his hands are around Shane’s arms. “Come on, let’s go. We can cuddle after we clean up.”</p><p>Shane pushes himself up and the action dislodges him from Ryan’s body and they both wince. “Sorry,” Shane says, recovering first.</p><p>Ryan smoothes his thumbs along the curve of Shane’s own biceps. “It’s fine,” Ryan says, “I’m fine.”</p><p>They end up not showering, deciding instead that Shane should get them washcloths from the bathroom, which he does, without too much grumbling. He takes the time to clean himself up at the sink and then goes from contacts to glasses, sliding the pair of black frames onto his face before going back out to the room with Ryan in it. Ryan’s pushed himself up to sitting, and he takes the washcloth from Shane while Shane busies himself changing into something to sleep in. </p><p>“My stuff’s in my room,” Ryan says, and Shane frowns. “I’m not—I want to stay, but I don’t—I need to take my contacts out and whatever.” </p><p>“Oh, well, okay then,” Shane says and slides his feet into a pair of sandals.</p><p> </p><p>-:-</p><p> </p><p>It’s almost hilarious to be walking down the hallway of a hotel towards his own room with Shane trailing at his heels, but Ryan kind of loves it. Who is he kidding though, he kind of loves everything about Shane. </p><p>They get to Ryan’s room, and slip inside. It’s quiet, and dark. Ryan hadn’t come up to his own room after the storm, just followed Shane to his. For a minute, he stands at loose ends, unsure what he should offer. Shane decides for him, and goes to sit on the bed closest to the window, picking up the remote to turn on the TV. </p><p>Outside, it’s raining again. </p><p>Ryan runs through his nighttime routine, and slides into a pair of soft pants and an old shirt from university, frayed at the hem and discoloured from an accident involving bleach. When he comes out of the bathroom, Shane’s stretched out in the bed, and he looks over at Ryan with a soft smile.</p><p>Ryan slides in beside him, rolls into Shane’s side and breathes in. His shirt is soft, and Ryan wants to rub his face all over it.</p><p>Shane thumbs through the menu on the TV, but evidently can’t decide on anything to watch. Ryan grabs the remote out of his hand, and tosses it onto the floor beside the bed. “Sleep,” he says, slinging an arm around Shane’s middle. </p><p>“‘Kay,” Shane says, and Ryan cuddles closer. </p><p>He’s almost asleep when he hears it; “Love you,” Shane says, and then sighs. </p><p>“Love you, too,” Ryan replies, sure of the words as soon as they leave his mouth. </p><p>Shane’s sharp intake of breath is enough to confirm that Ryan hadn’t been supposed to hear. </p><p>“I really do, you know,” Ryan says, “you just beat me to saying it. Nice work. That’ll be the only time you win anything in this relationship.” </p><p>“Oh? Is that how this works?” Shane retorts, but Ryan can hear the smile in his voice and he can feel the way Shane’s thumb is rubbing slow circles around the top of Ryan’s shoulder. </p><p>“Yeah, Shane, that’s how it works.” </p><p>“Go the fuck to sleep,” Shane suggests, and Ryan grins into Shane’s chest, and then, does just that.</p><p> </p><p>-:-</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Almost another year later: </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Shane gives TJ a thumbs up to the camera and lopes across the road towards Ryan, who is watching a tornado on a meandering path across an empty field. They chased this storm out together, the rest of the crew following them in another car, because Shane has a plan, and he needs a witness or three.</p><p>The sunset is dying in the west, throwing Ryan into shades of gold and softening his edges. They’ve been living together since after the last chase season, Ryan hauling his stuff north to OKC and helping Shane christen every room in the house with love and sex and the raucous laughter of people who are funniest when they are with each other. </p><p>Shane watches Ryan for a moment, before Ryan notices he’s there. </p><p>In his pocket, Shane’s hand curls around the item he secreted away before they left the hotel room this morning. Never mind what he does for a living, this is the scariest thing he’s ever had to do. Shane has stood in the path of a mile-wide tornado, stared it down, calm and collected, but now? His palms are sweaty, his heartbeat thunders in his ears, and anticipation turns his stomach to knots.</p><p>“Hey,” Ryan says, turning his head when Shane gets close enough. Love blooms behind Shane’s ribs at the soft smile Ryan gives him, affection burning bright in his eyes. Shane wants to slide an arm around his middle, and pull him close. “What a good day.”</p><p>“I know something that might make it better,” Shane says, and Ryan turns, a question on his face. Shane’s already sinking down to one knee, offering the ring between them. The question slides off Ryan’s face and in its place resolves a smile more brilliant than any sunset they’ve watched together. </p><p>“Will you marry me?” Shane asks, and then Ryan’s on his own knees, nodding, pulling Shane in, and kissing him breathless. </p><p>“Yes,” Ryan breathes, pulling away just far enough to be able to speak into the space between them. “Yes. God. Of course I will.” </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Pls come and chat about my fic on <a href="http://sequencefairy.tumblr.com">tumblr</a> or <a href="https://twitter.com/warpspeed_chic">twitter</a>. Thanks for reading! &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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